I 


George  JVashington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSnV  I.IHRARV 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 
FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL  FLOWERS 


Price  Two  Dollars,     v 

r.FTn;-rn^i,iu'i«wrieBM— 


FANTINE 


MISERABLES 


jg-r 


VICTOR  Huao. 


I 

DC 

published  ic  t'iv©  Parts — Each  Part  a  Compl&te  Novel, 
as  follows  :                          i 

FANTINE,                               MAKK^S, 
COSETTE,                               ST.  DENIS, 
JEAN    VALJEAN. 

i 

« 

• 

1 

RI  OHM  ON  I                                           ' 
WEST  &  JOHNSTON. 

L, 

1 H  G  ;> .                                          1 

LES  MISERABLES. 


(THE  WRETGHED.) 


%  ioid. 


BY 


VICT.OR   TTuao. 


A  NEW  TRANSLATION,  REVISED! 


IN  FIVE  PARTS: 

I.   PANTINE.  III.    MARIU8. 

II.    COSETTE.  IV.    ST.  DENIS. 

V.    JEAN  VAL.TEAN. 


PART  I. 


•   RICHMOND: 

WEST  &  JOHNSTON, 
.     1863. 


''J 


ERRATUM. 

On  page  60,  line  22,  instead  of  out  of  rttpect  to  the  dog,  it  should  be,  "iji  or- 
der to  keep  off  the  dog." 


C.    n.    WYNNE,    PRINTBB. 


:W    'I 


1   -'- 

it  ii^<3 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


"  Les  Midrahles" — Victor  HtlGO^s  last  novel — is  at  once  the  mani- 
festo of  a  Radical  and  the  fictittn  of  a  Poet.  With  all  its  faults — and 
they  are  many  and  glaring — it  is  the  most  remarkable  production  of  its 
class  which  has  been  ^published  for  many  years.  The  glowing  rhetoiic 
and  impassioned  dedamatiou  of  the  orator  of  the  Mountain,  the  fierce 
invective  of  "  Les  Chatiments,"  the  subtle  analy.sis  (5f  "  Le  dernier 
jour  d'un  Condamne,"  the  gorgeous  word-painting  of  "  Les  Orientales,' 
the  dramatic  power, of  "  Ruy  Bias,"  "Marie  Tudor"  and  "Lucrdce 
Borgia,"  are  all  combined  in  this  wonderful  book,  concentrated  and 
fussd  together,  as  it  were,  by  the  fire  of  genius.  Hence  the .  immense, 
sensation  it  has  created  in  France  and  in  Europe.  "  Parisiaii  work- 
men," says  the  author  of  a  violent  criticism  of  the  work,  published  in 
a  late  rimber  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  "club  together  in  their 
aJeh'crs,  to  purchase  a  copy  of  this  mendacious  appeal  to  thq  working 
classes,  and  a.ssemble  at  night  to  hear  it  read  aloud.  Parish  priests  in 
remote  villages  borrow  the  book  from  the  neighboring  chateau  and  gloat 
ovcr^e  history  of  social  iniquity,  in  their  lonely  parsonages." 

On  the  other  band,  the  Westminster  Review,  "the  great  organ  of 
British  Radicalism,  is  rapturous  in  its  praise.  "Faults,  eccentricities," 
says  the  reviewer,  "redundancies,  extravagances,  errors  against  good 
taste,  it  unquestionably  has.  Any  critic  who  liked  the  task  might  de- 
vote a  whole  essay  to  these  alone.  But  when  the  most  invidious  criti- 
cism has  d'one  its  worst,  the  immense  power,  the  noble  character  of  the 
work,  remains  unimpaired.  The  foundation  of  half  a  dozen  great  repu- 
tations might  be  discovered  in  the  pages  of  'Les  Miserables.'  Perhaps 
no  higher  praise  could  be  given  to  the  work  than  to  say,  that  heralded 
as  it  was  by  months  and  months  of  most  vehement  preliminary  lauda- 
tion, highly  wrought  up  as  public  expectation  had  purpo.sely  been,  the 
world  was  not  disappointed  in  the  end.  The  prcse^e  of  gcnrus  is  felt  by 
the  reader  ineverj  chapter  and  page.  A  deep  insight  into  human  na- 
ture, a  warm  and  almost.  pa.s.sioiia(c  sympathy  with  human  i?ufrering,  a 
pictorial  power  scarcely  rivalled  in  our  days,  a  dramatic  force  which 
strikes  out  new  and  thrilling  effects  in  every  new  situation,  an  inexhaus- 
tible variety  of  character,  incident  and  illustration,  and  a  vivid  elo- 
quence, absolutely  unequalled  by  nny  living  author  of  the  same  class — 
these  are  some,  and_  only  some  of  the  leading  qualities  by  means  of 
which  ViCTOft  Hugo  has  made  'Les  Mis6rables'  one  of  the  great  lite- 


,>  PRBPACB. 

mrw  mtonxiwuntM  of  ihf  cmttiry.     It  i«  one  of  fbc  master-pieces  of  the 
%ft  which  ha*  produocil  it." 

The  trap-Utioo  which  has  beeo  adoptrd  u.-^  liio  basis  of  the  present 
r»print,  all  hough  in  the  n)ain  faithful  and  spirited,  is  disfigured  by  nu- 
merooB  crrom  and  miAspprehenVions  of  peculiar  French  idioms,  some  of 
them  even  of  a  ludicrous  nature.  The  work  of  revising  and  correcting 
it  for  republication  was  commenced  by  that  accomplished  scholar,  Pro- 
feMor  A.  I>imitry  ;  but  the  pressure  of  other  engagemeuts  having  com- 
pelled that  gentleman  to  give  up  the  undertaking  after  he  bad  progressed 
M* far  as  page  49  of  this  edition,  the  task  of  revision  was  entrusted  bj 
the  publishers  to  the  present  editor,  who  has  endeavored  to  carry  out 
their  vi'.-ws  in  a  manner  that  will,  he  hopes,  prove  satisfactory  to  the 
v^diog  public. 

It  is  proper  to  state  here,  that  whrlst  every  chapter  and  paragraph  in 
any  way  connected  with  the  story  has  been  scrupulously  preserved, 
Mveral  long,  and  it  must  be  confessed,  rather  rambling  disfjuisitions  on 
political  and  other  matters  of  a  purely  local  character,  of  no  iiitercst 
whatever  on  this  sitlo  of  the  Atlantic,  and  exclusively  intended  for  the 
French  readers  of  the  book,  have  not  been  included  in  this  reprint.  A 
few  scattered  sent<'nc*«.  refle<ning  on  slavery — which  the  author,  with 
»traage  inconiiistcney,  has  thought  6t  to  introduce  into  a  work  written 
mainly  to  denounce  the  Kuropean  systems  of  labor  as  gigantic  instru- 
meots  of  tyranny  and  oppression — it  has  also  been  deemed  advis^Ie  to 
ptrike  out.  With  tboso  exceptions — and  thuy  arc  after  all  but  few  and 
ualmportant — the  original  work  is  hero  given  entire.  The  extraneous 
matter  emitted  has  not  the  remotest  connection  with  the  characters  or 
the  inriif-nts  of  the  novel,  and  the  absence  of  a  few  anti-slavery  para- 
grophd^will  hardly  be  complained  of  by  Southern  readers. 

A.  F. 

Richmond,  Mai/,  1)?G.'). 


% 


-3 


FANTINE. 


( 


J 


CONTENTS. 


,  PAGE. 

Editor's  Preface iii 

Author's  Preface .- 9 

BOOK  FIRST. 

.1.— Mr.  Myriel 9 

II. — Mr.  Myriel  becomes  My  Lord  Bitnivenu 11 

III. — Good  Bishop — Hard  Bishopric 15 

IV. — Works  answering  Words '.  16 

v.- — How  My  Lord  Bienvenu  made  his  Cassock  last  so  loftg 21 

VI. — How  he  protected  his  HorfSe 22 

Vll.—Cravatte f 27 

VIII. — After  Dinner  Philosophy »...  30 

IX, — The  Brother  portrayed  by  the  Sister ...../ 32 

X. — The  Bishop  in  the  presence  of  an  Unknown  Light 35 

BOOK  SECOND. 

I.— The  Night  of  a '"Day's  Tramp 44 

II. — Prudence  commended  to  Wisdom 52 

III. — The  Heroism  of  P^sive  Obedience i ^ 1 53 

IV. — Some  account  of  the  Dairies  of  Pontarlier .  57' 

v.— Tranquillity ;..^ 59 

VI. — .lean  Valjean , , 60 

VII.— The  Depths  of  Despair 63 

VIII.— New  Griefs : ..". 67 

IX.— The  Man  Awakes \ 68 

X.— What  he  Does ....* 70 

XI.— The  Bishop  at  Work .; 72 

XII.— Petit  Gervais , ,.•  75 

BOOK  THIRD. 

« 

I.— The  Year  1817 ., 81 

IL— Double  Quatuor ,^ 83 

III.— Four  to  Four r, .t 85 

IV. — Tholomy^s  is  so  merry  that  he  sings  a  Spanish  Song 87 

v.— At  Bombarda's •   89 

VI.— Death  of  a  Horse 91 

VII. — Joyous  end  of  Joy 93 

BOOK  FOURTH.  '         • 

I. — One  Mother  meets  another 95 

II. — First  Sketch  of  two  equivocal  Faces 101 

III.— TheLark r...  102 


Tlii  C0STBKT8. 

BOOK  FIFTU. 

PiSI 

I— flbtorj  cf  aa  ImproTeincnt  Ui  Jet-Work .^ 104 

II.— Madrleioe n  a •  106 

in  —  MoofTi  drpo»ite<l  with  Lftffitte« 108 

IV.  — Mr.  .M»<lel«ine  in  Mjurning • 110 

V. — Vafoe  Flft!«hra  in  the  UorizoD„ Ill 

TL— P»Uirr  J'BncheleTeot^ .' 114 

VII.— FaaehelereDt  becomes  a  Gardener  at  ParU 116 

Vlll. — Mrs    Victurnien  upemlH  Thirty  Francs  on  Moralitj ». 117 

IX.— Success  of  Mrs.  Victuruicn ^19 

X— Result*  of  the  Success .« ! 121 

XI. — Christus  nos  libcraTit...; 124 

XII. — The  Idleness  of  Mr.  Bamatabois 126 

XIII.— SolutioD  of  some  questions  of  Municipal  Police 126 

*  BOOK  SIXTH. 

I— The  Beginning  of  the  End 182 

II. — How  Jean  can  become  Champ 136 

BOOK  SEVENTH. 

I. — Sister  Simplice , ..•> 141 

II. — Shrewdness  of  Master  ScaufHaire 141^ 

III. — A  Tempest  in  a  Brain 147 

IV.— Forms  a.^sumcd  by  suffering  during  Sleep 159 

v.— Clogs  in  the  Wheels 161 

VI.— Sister  Simplice  put  to  the  Proof. 169 

VII. — The  Traveller  arrives  and  provides  for  his  Return 173 

VIII.  —  Admission  by  FiiTor - 176 

JX. — A  place  where  Convictions  are  in  the  way  of  being  formed 179 

X. — The  System  of  Denegations., 183 

XL — Cbampmatbieu  more  and  more  astonished ' ^ 188 

BOOK  EIGHTH. 

* 

I. — In  what  Mirror  Mr.  Madeleine  looks  at  his  Haij 191 

II.— Fantiiie  happy 193 

III  — Jiivort  hHtibfiod ^. 195 

•IV. — .Authority  rctumes  its  Rights...^.. .♦ 198 

v.— A  fitting  Tomb .' 200 


y 


1  /  /  <jJ 


LES  MISERABLES. 


FANTINE. 


PREFACE. 

So  long  as  there  shall  exist,  by  reason  of  law  and  custom,  a  social 
doom,  which,  in  the  face  of  civilization,  artificially  creates  hells  x)n  earth, 
distorts  a  divine  destiny  into  a  human  fatality;  so  long  as  the  three  pro- 
blems of  the  age — the  degradation  of  man  by  the  serfage  of  labor;  tj^ic 
forfeiture  of  woman's  true  estate  by  starvation,  and  the  dwarfing  of 
childho6d  by  physical  and  spiritual  night — are  not. solved;  so  long,  as  ■ 
in  certain  regions,  social  asphyxia  shall  be  possible;  in  other  words,  and. 
from  a  yet  more  extended  point  of  view,  so  long  as  ignorance  and  pau- 
perism remain  on  earth,  books  like  this  cannot  be  useless. 

Haute viLLE  House,  1862. 


13  0  0 ft  :g\x%X, 
AN  UPRIGHT  MAN 


MR.  MYRIEL. 


In  181.'),  Mr.  Charles  Fran<jois  Bienvenu  Myriel  was  IJi.^^hop  of  D- 


Hc  was  a  man  of  seventy-five,  and  had  occupied  the  see  of  D since 

ISUO.  Although  this  incident,  in  no  way,  afl^ects  the  essence  itself  of 
uur  narrative,  it  may  not  be  useless,  if  only  for  precision  in  all  things, 
t(»  advert  here  to  the  reports  and  go.'^sip  which  had  beep  current  about 
him  from  the  time  of  his  arrival  in  the  diocese. 

True  or  false,  whatever  is  said  of  men,  as  much  as  their  action?,  tells 
on  their  lives,  and,  especially,  on  their  destinies. 

Mr.  Myriel  was  the  son  of  a  counsellor  of  the  Parlcment  of  Aii ;  of 
the  Qobility  sprung  from  the  bar.    It  was  said  that  his  father,  iotending 


10  LES   MISP.RABLES. 

for  bim  a  rcrereion  of  hi»  oflSce,  had  contracted  a  marriage  for  hiin  at 
the  rariy  ape  of  eighteen  or  twrcQtj,  according  to  a  wide-spread  custom 
amoriL'  pnrliatncotiirj  *  f:iii)ilic8.     Charles  Myriel,  notwithstanding  this 

rii,  I  •  !  id,  it  wjis  ^aid,  beon  the  fiubject  of  much  scundal.  In  per- 
^  ;  slight  in  stature,  he  was  well  moulded — elejraut  and  graceful; 

all  llii;  turlicr  part  of  his  life  ha<i  been  devoted  to  the  world  and  to  its 
pleaKurcc.  The  revolution  canic,  events  crowded  upon  oaoh  other;  the 
parliainentar}*  families,  decimated,  hunted  and  purs-uod,  were  ponn  dis- 
•persed.  Mr.  Charles  Myriil,  on  the  first  outbreak  of  the  revolution,  emi- 
grated to  Italy.  His  wife  died  tluTo,  of  a  breast  complaint,  under  which 
she  had  long  labored.  They  had  no  children.  What  followed  in  tht 
fate  of  Mr.  Myriel  ?  The  decay  of  the  old  French  sooial  KyKtom,  the  fall 
of  hi.s  own  family,  the  tragic  sijxhts  of  '*.•.'),  still  more  fearful,  pcrliap«, 
to  the  exiles  who  beheld  them  from  afar,  magnified  by  friirht — did  thestf 
arouse  in  him  idcaij  of  nnworldline.ss  and  of  solitude'/  Was  he,  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  the  reveries  or  emotions  which  then  absoibed  his  life, 
suddenly  attacked  by  one  of  those  mysterious  and  terrible  blows  whijih 
Bomctiin's  overwhelm,  by  smiting  to  the  heart,  the  man  whom  public 
disaster  eould  not  shake,  by  aiminfjj  at  life  or  fortune?  No  one  could 
have  anfwcred;  all  that  was  known  was,  that  when  he  returned  from 
Italy  he  was  a  priest. 

In  IS"?,  Mr.  Myriel  was  curate  of  Brignolles.  ilc  w3k  then  ao  old 
man,  arid  lived  in  ih^-  deepest  seclusion. 

Ab'Ul  the  time  of  tho  Coronation,  a  trifling  matter  of  basineBH  bc- 
louping  to  his  curacy — what  it  was,  is  not  known  precisely — took  bim  to 
Paris. 

AmonL'  other  personages  of  authority,  ho  went  to  Cardinal  Fescb  on 
behalf  of  his  parishioners. 

One  diiy,  when  the  Kmpcror  had  come  to  visit  his  nnclo,  tho  worthy 
curate,  v.lio  was  waiting  in  the  anteroom,  happened  to  bo  in  tho  way  of 
his  majesty.  Napoleon  noticing  that  the  old  man  looked  at  him  with  a, 
certain  degree  of  euriosity,  turned  around  and  said  brusquely; 

"Who  is  this  j:oodman|"  who  l<Kiks  at  me?" 

"8ire,"  said  Mr.  Myriel,  "you  behold  a  goodman,  and  I  a  great  (pan. 
Each  of  us  may-prolit  by  it  " 

On  llie  very  evening  of  that  day  the  Emperor  asked  the  Cardinal  the 
name  of  (Ik-  curate,  and  some  time  afterivard,  Mr.  Myriel  was  overwhelmed 
with  surprise  on  learning  that  he  hud  oeen  appointed  IJishop  of  D . 

Beyond  this,  no  one  knew  how  much  truth  there  was  in  the  stories 
which  passed  current  eoiicerninir  the  lirst  portion  of  Mr.  Myricl's  life. 
But  few  families  had  known  the  Myricls  before  the  revolution. 

Mr.  .Myrid  had  to  submit  to  the  fate  of  every  new-comer  in  a  small 
town,  where  there  ^re  many  babbling  tonj^ues  and  few  thinking  heads. 
He  had-  to  submit,  tbougli  he  was  a  bishop,  and  because  be  was  a  bishop. 


*  Tliis  term  nnjst  not  be  inistakcn  by  the  reader,  accustomed  to  a  different  me 
of  llie  word  in  its  common  EnpHsb  aciieptance.  In  Kiigland  the  PaTliament  en- 
actH  Hlfttuti's:  in  France,  the  J'arlcmnit.  epeakinci'for  the  King,  uttered  decrees. 

■)•  Wo  have  here  a  pun,  which  loses  its  power  by  translation.  Tho  French  word 
bonhomrnr.  in  iu  compact  form,  mcanx  an  "old  fellow,"  whether  pood  or  bad. 
The  antitheKis,  which  makcH  tho  puo,  lies  ia  1/0^%  homme,  a  gOOtl  onao,  and  dow 
booliommc,  uu  '^  old  codger." 


FANTINE.  11 

Eut  after  all,  tho  jrnssip.with  which  his  name  was  connected,  was  only 
gossip:  noise,  talk,  wonls^  less  than  words— ^)a^at;c?\s,  as  they  sny  in  the 
forcible  languiigo  of  the  South. 

However  this  might  be,  after  nine  years  of  episcopacy,  and  of  residence 

in  D ,  all  these  stories,  topics  of  talk,  which  engross  at  iirst  petty 

towns  and  petty  people,  were  entirely  forgotten.  No  body  would  have 
dared  to  speak  of,  or  even  remember  them. 

When   Mr.   Myriel   came  to  D ,  he  was  accompanied  by  an  old 

maiden  huly,  Jliss  J3aptistine,  his  sister,  ten  yrars  younger  than 
himself. 

Their  only  domestic  was  a  woman  of  about  the  same  age  as  Miss 
Baptistine,  called  Mrs.  Wagloire,  who.  after  having  been  tl>  •  servant  of 
the  curate,  now  took  the  double  title  of  Icnime  de  chambrc  of  IMademoi- 
selle  and  housekeeper  of  Monscigneur. 

Miss  Baptistine  was  a  tall,  pale,  thin,  and  gentle  being.  She 
fully  realized  the  idea  which  is  C'lpresscd  by  the  word  'respectable;'  for 
it  seems  as  if  it  were  necessary  that  a  woman  <;hould  be  a  mother  to  be 
venerable.  She  had  never  been  pretty;  her  whole  life,  which  had  been 
but  a  succession  of  pious  works,  had  produced  upon  her  a  kind  of  trans- 
parent M'hiteness,  and  in  growing  old  she  had  acquired  wht'.t  may  be 
called  the  beauty  of  goodness.  What  had  been  thinness  in  her  youth 
had  become  in  maturity  transparency,  and  this  ctherealucss  permitted 
gleams  of  the  angel  within.  She  was  more  a  .«;pirit  than  a  virgin  mortal. 
iter  form  was  shadow-like,  hardly  enough  body  to  cOTivey  the  thought  of 
sex — a  little  earth  containing  a  spark — large  e3'cs,  always  cast  down;  a 
pretext  for  a  sonl  to  remain  on  earth. 

Mrs.  ^^aglorre  was  a  little,  white,  fat,  jolly,  bustling  old  womar, 
always  out  of  breath,  caused  first  by  her  activity,  and  then  by  her 
asthma. 

M.  Myriel,'  upon  his  arrival,  was  installed  in  his  episcopal  palace  with 
the  honors  prescribed  by  the  imperial  door"(^«,  which  class  the  bishop  next 
in  rank  to  tbe  field-marshal.  The  Mayor  and  the  President  paid  him  the 
first  visit,  and  he,  on  his  part,  paid  like  honor  to  the  General  and  the 
Prefect. 

The  inst^allation  being  completed,  the  town  was  anxious  to  sec  its 
bishop  at  work. 


II. 

MR.    .MYRIEI,    BECOMKS    MY    LOHO    UIE.NVENU. 

The  bishop's  palace  at  D was  contiguous  to  the  hospit;il;  the 

palace  was  a  spacious  and  beautiful  edifice,  b\iijt  of  stone  in  the  i>0!_'inning 
of  the  last  century  by  Monsiegnour  Henri  Piijnt,  a  doctor  of  theology 

of  the  Faculty  of  Paris,  abbe  of  Simoro,  who  was  bishop  of  P in 

1712.  The  palace  was  a  right  Irdly  dwelling;  there  was  an  air  of  gran- 
deur about  everything,  the  ap;irtment8  of  the  bishop,  the  saloons,  the. 
chambers,  the  court  of  honor,  which  w.ts  very  largo,  with  arched  walk-* 
after  the  antique  Florentiac  style;  and  a  garden  planted  with  raagnifi- 
cent  trees. 


12  LE8   MIS^RABLES. 

In  the  dinine  b»l!.  a  Ion?  »od  tnafinificoot  pallcry  on  the  ground  floor, 
pt  '!<n.  Mons.  Henri  Piijct  Jmd  jrivon  a  grand  banquet 

,1  171  1.  to  their  lordfhips  ('harles  IJiHilart  dc  (u-nh's, 

:,•  l')inl)run,  Antfiine  do   Mcsgriirny,  capuchin,  hi.>^hop 

t '  :•■  Vendomc,  grand-prior  do   France,  lord  abbot  of 

ts^iui    1  1..  vins,  Kran9ois  de   Hertftn  de  (irillon,  bishop  baron 

of  \v\i  I'-'  ."^nbran  de  Forcalquier,  lord  bisliop  of  Ghmdivc,  and 

Jmo  Sfianco.  priest  of  the  Oratory,  preacher  in  ordinary  to  the  King, 
lord  binhop  of  Scnffz.  The  portraits  of  these  seven  rVvi-rend  perstmagos 
decorated  the  hall,  and  this  ineinorablc  date,  July  20th,  1714,  appeared 
in  letters  of  gold  ou  a  white  marble  tablet. 

The  hospital  was  a  low,  narrow,  one-story  building,  with  a  small 
ginlcn. 

Three  days  after  the  bishop's  advent,  he  visited  the  hospital;  when 
the  visit  was  ended,  he  invited  the  director  to  call  at  the  palace. 

"Sir,"  sjiid  he  to  the  director  of  the  hospit^il,  "how  many  patients 
have  you  ?" 

"Twenty-six,  ray  lord." 

"  That  is  as  I  had  counted,"  said  the  bishop. 

"The  beds,"  continued  the  director,  "are  clo.sely  packed." 

"  I  had  so  noticed." 

"The  wat-ds  are  but  sraall  chambers,  and  arc  not  easily  ventilated." 

"  It  seems  so  to  rac." 

"  And  then,  when  the  sun  docs  shine,  the  garden  is  very  small  for 
the  convalescents." 

"This  I  had  Kiid  to  myself." 

"In  the  way  of  epidemics,  we  have  had  typhus  fever  this  year;  two 
years  ago  we  had  miliary  fever,  .some  times  one  hundred  pnticnf^.  ,ind 
we  did  not  know  what  to  do." 

"That  had  occurred  to  me." 

"  What  can  we  do,  my  lord,"  said  the  director;  "we  must  be  resigned  " 

Thii  conversation  took  place  in  the  dining  gallery  on  the  ground  floor. 

The  bishop  was  silent  a  few  moments;  then  he  turned  abruptly  to- 
wards the  director. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "how  many  beds  do  you  think  this  hall  alone  would 
cootaiu  V 

"  .Nly  lord's  dining  hall  I"  exclaimed  the  director,  stapeGed. 

The  bishdp  ran  his  eyes  over  the  hall,  seemingly  taking  measure,  and 
making  caleuialions. 

"  It  will  any  way  hold  twenty  beds,"  said  he  to  himself;  then  raising 
his  vuice.  he  said  : 

"Jji-ten,  Mr.  Director,  to  what  I  have  to  say.  There  is  evidently  a 
mistake  here  There  arc  twenty-six  of  you  in  five  or  six  small  rooms. 
There  are  only  three  of  us,  and  space  for  sixty.  There  is  a  mistake,  I 
tell  v'lu.  You  have  my  house,  and  I  have  yours.  Restore  u)ine  to  me, 
and  Ik!  (his  your  home." 

The  next  day  the  twenty-six  poor  invalids  were  installed  in  the 
bish«p")«  pulace,  and  the  bishop  had  gone  to  the  hospital. 

Mr.  Myriel  had  no  property,  his  family  having  been  impoveri.shed  by 
tb«  rovolation.  His  sister  held  an  annuity  of  live  hundred  francs,  which 
(0  the  vicarage  sufficed  for  her  personal  wants.    Mr.  Myriel  received  from 


FANTINE.  13 

the  government,  as  bishop,  a  salary  of  fifteen  thousand  francs.  The  day 
on  which  he  took  up  his  residence  in  the  hospital  building,  he  resolved 
to  appropriate  this  sum,  once  for  all,  to  the  following  uses.  We  copy 
the  schedule  then  written  by  him  : 

^'  Memorandum  for  my  Household  Exj)enses. 

For  the  little  seminary,  fifteen  hundred  livres. 

Mission  congregation,  one  hundred  livres. 

For  the  Lazarists  of  Montdidier,  one  hundred  livres. 

Seminary  of  foreign  mi.*sians  in  Paris,  two  hundred  livres. 

Congregation  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  one  hundred  and  fifty  livrea. 

Keligious  establishments  in  the  Holy  Land,  one  hundred  livres. 

Maternal  charitable  societies,  three  hundred  livres. 

For  that  of  Aries,  fifty  livres. 

For  the  Jail  Improvement  Society,  four  hundred  livres. 

For  the  relief  and  deliverance  of  prisoners,  five  hundred  livres. 

For  the  liberation  of  fathers  of  families  imprisoned  for  debt,  one  thou- 
sand livres. 

Additions  to  the  salaries  of  poor  schoolmasters  of  the  diocese,  two 
thousand  livres. 

Public  storehouse  of  the  Upper  Alps,  one  hundred  livres. 

Association  of  the  ladies  of  D of  Manosque  and  Sisterron  for 

the  gratuitous  instruction  of  poor  girls,  fifteen  hundred  livres. 

For  the  poor,  six  thousand  livres. 

My  personal  expenses,  one  thousand  livres. 

Total,  fifteen  thousand  livres." 

Mr.  Myriel-made  no  alteration  in  this  plan  during  tl/e  time  he  held  the 

see  of  D ;  he  called  it,  as  will  have  been  seen,  the  settlement  of  his 

household  expfnses. 

Miss  Baptistine  accepted  this  arrangement  with  entire  submis- 
sion: to  this  holy  woman  Mr.  Myriel  was  at  once  a  brother  and  a 
bishop,  her  companion  by  ties  of  blood  and  her  superior  by  spiritual  au- 
thority. She  loved  and  venerated  him  unaffectedly  :  when  he  spoke,  she 
listened;  when  he  acted,  sfie  yielded  hor  assent.  Mrs.  Magloire,  how- 
ever, their  servant,  grumbled  a  little.  The  bishop,  as  it  may  have 
been  ?een,  bad  reserved  but  a  thousand  francs;  this,  added  to  tiie  income 
of  Miss  Baptistine,  gave  them  a  yearly  dependence  of  fifteen  hundred 
francs,  upon  which  the  three  old  people  subsisted. 

Thanks,  however,  to  the  rigid  economy  of  Mrs.  Magloire,  and  the 
excellent  management  of.  Miss  Baptistine,  whenever  a  curate  came  to 
D ,  the  bishop  found  means  fo  extend  to  him  his  hospitality. 

About  three  months  after  the  installation,  the  bishop  said  one  day, 
"With  all  this. I  am  very  much  cramped."  "I  think  so  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Magloire:  "My  Lord  has  not  even  a.<;kcd  for  the  sura  due  him  by  the 
department  for  his  carriage  expenses  in  town,  and  in  his  circuits  in  the 
diocese.     It  was  formerly  the  custom  with  all  bishops." 

"  Yes  I"  said  the  bishop;   "you  are  right,  Mrs.  Magloire." 

He  made  his  application. 

Some  time  afterwards,  the  General  Couneii  took  his  claim  into  con- 
sideration and  voted  him  an  annual  stipend  of  three  thousand  francs 


14  LCS   MISKRABLES. 

undi^r  ihii  hmd :  "AUoirance  to  the  bishop  for  carriage  expenses,  rclaj 
»•  "  .,  f..r  p:i*toraI  visits." 

the  lowu  were  much  excited  on  ttie  soljoct,  and 
in  rt|£dr<i  lo  it  i*  Muator  of  the  Kinpire,  formerly  iiicniber  of  the  Coun- 
cil ff  Five  Iliindn-d,  an  advocate  of  the  P^ighlcciilh  IJrumaire,  now 
1r  ill  n  rich  pcnutorlal  scat  near  I) ,  wrote  to  M.  ]{ii;ot  de 

'.  Miuif-tcr  of   Pulilic   Worship,   a  fault  lituling,  coD&Jontial 

ff  :  wliirh  we  maki-  the  followiofr  cxtra<.-l  : — 

■I  .   ixprnscs  !     What  can  he  want  of  it  in  a  town  of  loss  than 

lour  tl)' usund  inhabitant."^  y  Kxpenses  of  pastciral  visits!  And  what 
^ood  do  ilipy  do,  in  the  first  place ;  and  th(?»i,  how»is  it  possible  to  travel 
by  post  in  this  mountain  region?  There  are  no  roads;  he  can  go  only 
on  horseback.  Even  the  bridge  over  the  Durance  at  Chateau  Arnoux 
is  scarcely  passable  for  ox-carts.  These  pric'^ts  are  always  &o ;  grasping 
and  miserly.  This  one  was  meek  and  humble  at  the  outset :  now  he 
act*  like  the  rest:  he  must  have  a  carriage  and  po.-t-chaise.  lie  must 
indulge  in  luxuries  like  the  old  bishops.  Bah  !  tliis  whole  priesthood  ! 
Monsieur  Ic  Comtc,  njaftcrs  will  never  improve  till  (he  Emperor  de- 
livers us  from  these  skuU-c-nps.  Down  with  the  Pope  I  (  Matters  were 
just  then  getking  crfniplicatcd  with  Rome.)  For  my  part,  I  go  for  Crosar 
alone,'*  &c  ,  <kc.,  &c. 

This  application,  on  the  other  hand,  pleased  Mrs.  Mngloire  ex- 
ceedingly. "tJood,"  said  sho  to  Miss  IJaptistinc; ;  "his  lordship 
l»egan  with  others,  but  he  has  found,  at  last,  that  it  must  end  in  his 
looking  out  for  himself.  He  has  settled  all  his  charities,  and  .so  now 
here  are  tlirce  thousand  francs  for  us." 

The  .same  evening  tLe  bishop  wrote,  and  gave  to  his  sister,  a  mcmo- 
ruudum,  couched  iu  these  terms :  * 

"  Carriage  and  Visitation  Ejc}>nisfs, 

For  beef  and  pork  for  the  hospital,  fifteen  hundred  livres. 

For  the  Aix  MatA-nal  .Charity  Assoeiatioo,  two  hundred  and  fifty 
livres. 

For  the  Draguignan  Maternal  Charity  Aaiociation,  two  hundred  and 
fifty  livres 

For  loiredliugs,  five  hundred  livres.  , 

For  orphans,  five  hundred  livres. 

Total,  three  thousand  livres." 

Such  was  the  budget  of  Mr.  ^lyricl. 

In  regard  to  the  otlieial  jicniufsiles,  marriage  licenses,  dispensations, 
private  baptisms,  and  preacliing,  consecrations  of  ehurcdies  or  chapels, 
marriages,  A:c.,  (he  bishop  coFlected  them  from  the  wealthy  with  so  much 
the   more  punctuality,  that  the  proceeds  immediately  Wtfut  to  the  poor. 

In  a  short  time  donatiojis  of  money  flowed  into  (lie  bishop's  hands; 
ihoso  who  had  and  those  who  had  not,  knocked  at  the  bisliop's  door. 
Some  c;inie  to  receive  alms  which  others  had  bestowed,  and  in  less  than 
a  yc:ir  he  had  become  the  trea.surer  of  all  the  benevolent,  and  the  banker 
to  all  the  distressed.  Large  sums  passed  through  his  hands;  neverthe- 
Icsa,  he  changed  in  nowi.se  his  mode  of  living,  nor  added  the  least  lux- 
ury to  the'striet  necessaries  of  life. 


FANTINE.  15 

On  tlic  contrary,  as  there  is  always  more  misery  among  the  lower 
classes  than  there  is  humanity  in  the  higher,  every  thing  was  givcQ 
uwa^,  so  to  speak,  before  it  was  received.  It  was  like  water  on  a  sandy 
'soil.  •  For  all  the  money  that  he  might  receive,  he  still  never  had  any  in 
hand.  In  such  cases  he  would  rob  himself  of  his  own.  It  being  the 
custom  that  all  bishops  should  put  their  christian  names  at  the  head  of 
their  orders  and  pastoral  letters,  the  poor  people  of  the  district  had 
chosen,  by  a  sort  of  affectionate  instinct,  from  among  the  names  of  the 
bishop,  tliat  which  was  expressive  to  them,  and  they  always  called  him 
My  Lord  Bienvenu.  We  shall  follow  their  example,  and  shall  call  him 
tlius.  On  the  whole,  he  was  pleased  \vth  this  form  of  address.  "I 
like  this  name,''  said  he  ;  *'  Bienvenu  is  a  corrective  of  *  My  Lord.'  " 

We  do  not  claim  that  the  portrait  which  we  present  hero  is  a  true 
one ;  we  say  only  that  it  is  a  good  likeness. 


III. 

A   GOOD   BISHOP   FOR   A    HARD   DIOCESE. 

What  though  the  bishop  had  converged  his  carriage  into  charities,  he 
did  not,  therefore,  the  less   regularly  perform   his  pastoral  rounds.     A 

trj^ing  diocese,  withal,  was  that  of  D ,  as  may  have  been   inferred 

fjxtra  the  senatorial  protest.  •  There  was  verj'  little  plain,  a  good  deal  of 
mountain,  and  hardly  any  roads,  as  the  see  included  thirty-two  curacies, 
forty-one  vicarages,  and  two  hundred  and  eighty-five  sub-curacies.  To 
visit  all  these  is  a  great  labor,  but  the  bishop  went  through  with  it.  He 
traveled  on  foot  in  his  own  neighborhood,  in  a  cart  when  he  was  in  the 
plains,  and  in  a  cacolet,  a  basket  strapped  on  the  back  of  a  mule,  when 
in  the  mountains.  The  two  women  usually  accompanied  him,  but  when 
the  journey  was  too  difficult  for  tiiem,-lie  went  alone. 

One  day  he  arrived  at  Senez,  an  old  episcopal  seat,  mounted  on  an 
a.s3.  His  purse,  quite  low  at  the  lime,  would  not  allow  any  better  con- 
veyance. The  mayor  of  the  city  came  to  receive  him  at  the  portal  of 
the  episcopal  residence,  and  with  scandalized  astonishment,  saw  him  dis- 
mount from  his  a.ss.     Several  of  thij  citizens  stood   near  by,  laughing. 

"  Mr.  Mayor,''  said  the  bishop,  "and  you,  gentlemen  burghers,  I  see 
what  scandalizes  you;  you  think  that  it  argues  a  deal  of  pride,  for  a 
ponr  priest  to  use  the  same  conveyance  which  was  once  used  b}'  Christ. 
I  have  d«no  it  from  necessity,  I  assure  you,  and  not  from  vanity." 

In  his  visits  he  was  indulgent  and  gentle,  and  preached  le.«s  than  he 
conversed.  lie  never  used  far-fetched  reasons  or  examples  To  the 
inhabitants  of  one  region  he  would  cite  the  exan)ple  of  a  neighboring 
region.  In  the  districts  where  the  needy  were  treated  with  ii;;ur,  he 
would  say,  "Look  at  the  people  of  Brian^nn.  They  have  given  to  the 
poor,  and  to  widows  and  orphans,  the  right  to  mow  their  meadows  two 
months  before  all  the  others.  When  tiieir  houses  arc  in  ruin.s  they 
rebuild  them  without  cost.  Hence  it  is  a  country  ble.s.sed  of  God.  For 
a  whole  century  they  have  not  known  a  single  murder  in  their  midst." 

In  villages  where  the  people  were  greedy  for  gain,  and  absorbed  in 
their  crops,  he  would  say,  "  Look  at  Embrun.     If  a  father  of  a  family, 


10  LBS  mis£rables. 

at  harvest  time,  hx%  hit  ooiui  in  the  arinj,  and  his  daughter^  at  service 
io  the  cilj,  and  lie  be  nick,  the  pricpt  reconmionds  him,  in  his  Sunday 
:n«tructinn«  and  iftcr  misn,  the  whole  population  of  the  village,  von,^ 
women  and  rhiMrcn,  g'>  info  the  poor  man's  fii-ld  and  harvest,  his 
'•rt»p,  and  put  ttntr  an<i  jirain  into  hi.-*  loft."  To  families  at  variance  ou . 
qii.-*ti>inf  of  nmney  and  inheritance,  he  would  say,  "See  the  niountain- 
c«Tf»  of  I>cvi>!ny.  a  country  so  wild  that  the  nifihtingale  is  not  heanl 
thor.'  onef  in  lifty  years  Well,  now,  when  the  head  of  the  family  dies, 
the  Itoy^  pt  away  to  seek  their  fortunes,  and  leave  the  property  to  the 
girld,  po  rhat  they  may  get  husbands."  In  tho.'se  districts  where  the 
spirit  of  litigation  exists,  and  wiiere  the  farmers  were  ruining  themselves 
with  stampe<i  paper,  he  would  .say,  "  Look  at  those  good  peasants  of  the 
valley  of  Qucyru-s.  There  arc  three  thou.sand  souls  there.  AVhy,  it  is 
like  a  little  republic  I  Neither  judge  nor  constable  is  known  there. 
The  mayor  does  everything.  He  apportions  the  impost,  taxes  each  one 
conscientiously,  decides  their  quarrels  without  charge,  divides  their  patri- 
mony without  fees,  gives  judgment  without  costs ;  and  he  is  obeyed, 
because  he  is  a  just  man.  among  simple  hearted  men."  In  the 
villages  which  he  found  without  a  school-master,  he  would  again 
insuincc  the  valley  of  Qucyras.  "  Do  you  know  how  they  man- 
age?" he  would  say.  "As  a  little  district  of  twelve  or  lifteen 
bou.«cs  cannot  always  support  a  dominie,  they  have  schoolmasters 
that  are  paid  by  the  whole  valley,  who  go  round  from  village 
to  village,  teaching  a  week  in  this  place,  and  ten  d:vys  in  that. 
These  masters  attend  the  fairs,  where  I  have  seen  them.  They  are 
known  by  (juills  which  they  wear  in  their  hat-band.  Those  who  teach 
reading  only,  have  one  f|uillj  those  who  teach  reading  and  arithmetic, 
have  two;  and  those  who  teach  reading,  arithmetic  and  Latin,  have 
three ;  the  latter  are  esteemed  great  scholars.  IJut  what  a  sbamp  to  be 
ignorant'.     Do  like  the  f>eople  of  Queyras." 

In  such  fashion  would  he  talk  with  fatherly  gmvity  ;  in  the  absence 
of  examples  he  would  contrive  parables  going  straight  to  his  object,  with  . 
few  phrases  and    m*.iny  images,  which  was  ihe  very  eloquence  of  Jesus 
Chri.-»t,  earnesi  and  persuasive. 


IV. 

AVORKS    .MATCHING    WORDS. 

IliH  conversation  was  affable  and  cheerful.  Ho  adapted  himself  to 
the  capacity  of  the  two  old  women  who  lived  with  hiu» ;  when  he 
laughed,  it  was  the  hugh  of  a  school-boy. 

Mrs.  Magloire  found  no  objection  in  addressing  him  as  Your  Grcnf- 
neu.  One  day  he  rose  from  his  arm-chair,  and  went  to  his  library  for  :v 
book.  It  was  upon  one  of  the  upper  shelves,  and  as  the  bishop  was 
imther  short  of  stature  he  could  not  reach  it.  "  Mrs.  Magloire,"  said 
he,   "  bring  me  a  chair.     My  greatness  does  not  extend  to  this  shelf." 

One  of  his  distant  relatives,  the  countess  of  Lo,  rarely  failed  to  im- 
prove an  occasion  of  rehearsing,  in  his  presence,  what  she  called  "  the 
expoctations"  of  her  three  sons.  She  had  several  relatives,  very  old 
aod.near  their  death,  of  whom  her  sons  were  the  legal  heirs.     The 


♦    FANTINE.  17 

youngest  of  the  three  was  to  receive,  from  a  great-aunt,  a  rental  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  livres;  the  second  looked  to  a  substitution  of  his  uncle'sr 
ducal  title  ;  the  eldest  would  succeed  to  his  grand-father's  peerage.  The 
bishop  com m only  listened  in  silence  to  these  harmless  and  pardonable  ma- 
ternal displays.  Once,  however,  he  appeared  more  thougiitful  than  wa?j 
his  wont,  while  Madame  de  L6  rehearsed  the  various  points  of  all' 
these  successions  and  all  these  "  expectations."  Stopping  suddenly, 
with  some  impatience,  she  exclaimed,  ''  My  goodness,  cousin,  what  are 
you  thinking  about  ?" 

"  I  J\m  thinking,"  said  the  bishop,  "  of  a  strange  thing,  which  is,  I 
believe,  in  St.  Augustine;  'place  your  expectations  on  him  who  knows 
no  successor.'" 

On  another  occasion,  receiving  a  letter  announcing  the  decease  of  ft 
gentleman  in  the  country,  in  which  werb  spread  out  on  a  long  page, 
besides  the  dignities  of  the  departed,  all  the  feudal  and  titular  honors  of 
all  his  relations,  he  exclaimed :  "  How  broad  are  the  shoulders  of 
Death  !  How*  wondrous  a  load  of  titles  is  h^  made  to  carry !  AnJ 
how  keen  are  the  devices  of  man,  thus  to  impress  the  grave  into  the 
service  of  his  vanity  !" 

On  occasions  he  would  indulge  in  a*  quiet  irony,  which  almost  always- 
conveyed  some  serious  sense.     Once,  during  Lent,  a  young  vicar  camo 

to  D- ,  and  preached  in  the  cathedral.     The  subject  of  his  scrmou 

was  charity,  and  he  treated  it  very  eloquently.  He  called  upon  the  ricb 
to  give  alms  to  the  poor,  if  they  Would  escape  the  tortures  of  hell,  whicl> 
he  pictured  in  the  most  fearful  colors,  and  enter  that  paradise  which  he 
painted  as  so  desirable  and  inviting.  There  was  a  rich  retired  merchant 
in  the  audience,  Mr.  Geborand,  something  of  an  usurer,  who  had  accumu- 
lated an  estate  of  two  millions  in  the  manufacture  of  coarse  clothe, 
woolens,  serges  and  camelets.  Never,  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life, 
had  Mr.  Geborand  given  alms  to  the  unfortunate;  but  from  the  date  of 
this  sermon  it  was  noticed  that  he  gave  regularly,  everj-  Sunday,  a  penny 
to  the  old  beggar  women  who  were  stationed  at  the  portals  of  the  cathe- 
dral. There  were  six  of  them  to  share  in  the  dole.  The  bishop' 
chanced  to  see  him  one  day  dispensing  this  alms,  and  said  to  his  sister, 
with  a  smile,  "  Here's  Mr.  Geburand  buying  a  pennyworth  of  heaven." 

When  the  question  turbed  on  charity,  not  even  could  a  denial  rebuff 
him,  and  he  would  then  command  words  that  compelled  men  to  reflect. 
One  day  ho  was  begging  in  a  drawing-room  of  the  city,  where  the  Mar- 
quis of  Champtercier,  who  was  old,  rich,  and  miserly,  was  present.  The 
^Marquis  managed  to  be,  at  the  same  time,  an  ultra-royali.st,  and  an 
ultra- Voltarian,  a  species  of  which  he  was  not  the  only  roprcseutative. 
The  bishop  coming  to  him  in  turn,  touched  his  arm,  and  said,  "  Mar- 
quis^ you  must  give  mc  something."  The  Marquis  turned  and  answcretl 
bluntly,  "  My  Lord,  I  have  my  own  poor."  "  Make  them  over  to  me," 
said  the  bi.shop. 

One  day  he  preached  this  scrnron  in  the  cathedral :  "  My  very  dear 
brethren,  ray  good  fr^end.o,  there  are  in  France  thirteen  hundred  an  J 
twenty  thousand  peasants'  cottages  that  have  but  three  openings; 
eighteen  hundred  and  seventeen  thousand  that  have  two,  the  door  and" 
one  window;  and  finally,  three  hundred  and  forty-six  thousand  hovels, 
with  only  one  opening — the  door.  •  And  this  is  in  consequence  of  wha^ 


IS  LBS  MIB£rABLH». 

U  oallod  the  cxcUc  upon  doorx  and  windows  lludJlc  poor  fuiuilios,  old 
vomoo  and  lilUc  clrildrcn  in  ihot-e  huts,  and  look  to  comiDg  fevers  and 
to  diMa*©«  of  every  kihd.  Alas!  God  gives  light  to  ii.cn,  but  the  law 
ctialTcrii  it  back  to  ihciii  I  do  not  iinpu<;Plhe  law  ;  liut  I  do  bless  God. 
In  Im'ta,  in  N»r,  and  in  the  Upper  und  the  Lower  Alps,  the  peasants 
fcave  !K»l  cTcn  whcclbarrown,  they  carry  the  manure  on  their  backs; 
Ihcy  havo  no  cnDdles,  but  burn  pine  knots,  and  bith  of  rope  soaked  in 
titcL.  And  the  same  is  the  case  all  through  the  upper  country  of 
Ptuphino.  They  bake  bread  once  in  six  months,  and  then  their  fuel  i^  of 
Chc  dried  dung  uf  the  fields.  In  winter  they  cut  it  up  with  an  axe,  and 
•oak  it  for  twenty-four  hours,  before  they  can  eat  it.  My  brethren,  bo 
COnip-'sionate  ;  behnld  how  much  sufleting  there  is  around  you  " 
^  Uorn  a  I'rovencjal,  he  had  ca.sily  made  himself  familiur  with  all  the 
Jialec'8  of  the  South.  He  would  say  "/i/t,  be!  mouiiiiu,  us  su(j^ ?"  as 
in  Lt'Wcr  Languedoc;  "Oiitc  ufiarns  passu  ?"  as  in  the  Lower  Alps; 
*''l*ueiU  \m  bourn  moutou  rnibe  un  boven  froitmat/c  t/rasc,"  a.s  in  I  ppcr 
J>aupliin6.  This  pleasec^  the  people  j^reafly,  and  contribuftd  not  a  little 
to  gi«i"g  him  ready  access  to  their  hearts.  Whether  in  the  cottage,  or 
in  the  mountain,  he  was  at  home.  He  could  say  the  grandest  things  io 
(ho  most  commoD  language ;  and  *as  he  mastered  every  dialect,  so  be 
*poke  hi.-i  way  to  every  soul. 

He  condemned  nothing  hastily,  or  without  taking  account  of  circura-_ 
fcJancos.     He  would   say,  "Let  us  see  the  way  through  which  the  error 
Los  crept." 

H«-in;r,  as  he  smilin^^ly  described  himself,  an  rx-siunr.r,  he  had  none 
cfthc  btiffne.sa  of  puritanism,  and  boldly  profe.s.sed,  even  under  the  eyes 
rT  the  Ccrociously  virtuous,  a  doctrine  which  may  be  nearly  summed  up 
ia  this : 

•'  Man  ha.s  a  body  which  is  at  once  his  burden  and  his  temptation. 
He  dra[;s  it  along,  and  yields  to  it. 

*'  Ho  ought  to  watch  over  it,  to  keep  it  in  bounds;  to  repre.<i3  it,  and 
yield  to  it  at  the  last  extremity,  only.  It  may  be  wrong  to  yield  even 
(beo,  but  if  .so,  the  fault  is  venial.  It  is  a  fall,  but  a  (uVi  upon  the 
knee.-*,  which  may  end  in  prayer. 

"To  bo  a  saint  i.s  the  exception;  to  be  upright  is  the  rule.  l]rr, 
falter,  sin  ;  but  be  upright. 

"  To  commit  the  least  possible  amount  of  sin  is  the  law  for  mun.  To 
live  witiiout  sin  is  the  dream  of  an  angel.  Everything  '  6(  the  earth, 
eurthy,'  is  subject  to  sin.     Sin  also  has  its  laws  of  gravitation." 

Wljcn  he  heard  many  exclaiming,  and  quick  at  the  language  of  indig- 
iration,  "Oh  1  oh  !"  he  would  fay,  smiling,  "  It  would  ^eum  t^jat  thii?  is 
a  great  crime,  in  which  the  whole  world  has  its  common  share.  Here  is 
•iUrtleJ  hypocrisy,  ready  with  its  protest,  and  hastening  to  its  cover  I'' 

Ho  WIS  iijdulgcnt  towards  women,  and  towards  the  ])Oor,  upon  whom 
tV.c  weight  ol"  human  .society  lulls  most  heavily.  He  wa.s  wout  to  say, 
*'TL«:  fiiults  of  women,  children,  and  survants,  of  the  feel.>le,  the  indigent, 
•nd  the  igoorunt,  are  the  faults  of  their  husbands,  father.-*,  and  n.MSters, 
cf  the  strong,  the  rich,  and  the  learned."  At  other  timo3  he  said, 
*' Teach  the  ignorant  as  much  a.s  you  can;  society  incurs  a  mora!  guilt 
in  failing  to  provide  free  instruction  for  all,  and  it  is  answerable  for  tho 
intellcctuaf  darkness  which  it  creates.     If  the  soul  is  lef:  in  darkness, 


•  m.  '         FANTINE.  19 

•sens  will  be  coTunut.ted.     The  guilty  one  is  not  he  who  commits  the  sin, 
but  he  who  causes  the  darkness." 

As  we  see,  he  hud  a  strange  and  peculiar  way  of  judging  things.  X 
suspect  that  he  had  found  it  in  the  gospel.  4.  .  ,,  ^ 

In  Company  one  day  lie  heard  an  account  of  a  criminal  case  that  waa 
about  to  be  tried.  A  pitiable  man,  havin^;  exhausted  his  resources,  and 
moved  by  his  love  for  a  woman  anil  for  the  child  which  she  had  borne 
him,  had  resorted  to  false  coining  for  means  of  existence.  At  that 
time  counterfeiting  was  still  punished  by  death.  The  woman  was  arrested 
in  the  act  of  passing  the  first  piecu  that  he  had  made.  She  was  held  a 
prisoner,  but  the  evidence  worked  against  her  only.  She  alone  could 
testify  against  her  lover,  and  convict  him  by  her  confession.  She  denied 
his  guilt.  They  insisted,  but  she  was  obstinate  in  her  denial.  In  this 
.state  of  the  case,  the  prosecuting  attorney  for  the  crown  devised  a  shrewd 
plan.  He  represented  to  her  that  her  lover  was  unfaithful,  and  by 
means  of  fragments  of  letters  skilfully  put  together,  succeeded  in  con- 
viffcing  the  unfortunate  woman  that  she  had  a  rival,  and  that  this  man 
had  deceived  her.  At  once  exasperated  by  jealousy,  she  denounced  her 
lover,  confessed  all,  and  proved  his  guilt  He  was  to  be  tried  in  a  few 
days  at  Aix,  with  his  accomplice,  and  his  conviction  was  certain.  The 
story  was  told,  and  every b(ldy  was  in  eestacy  at  the  adroitness  of  the 
officer.  In  bringing  jealousy  into  play,  he  had  brought  truth  to  light  by 
means  of  anger,  and  justice  had  sprung  from  revenge.  The  bishop 
listened  to  all  this  in  silence      When  the  account  was  through,  he  asked  : 

"Where  are  this  man  and  woman  to  be  tried?" 

"At  the  Assizes." 

"And  where  is  the  proTvn  attorney  to  be  tried  ?" 

A  tragic  event  occurred   at  D .     A  man  had  been  condemned  to 

death  for  murder.  The  culprit  was  a  poorly  educated,  but  not  entirely 
ignorant  man,  who  had  been  a  juggler  at  fairs,  and  a  public  scrivener.  ' 
His  trial  was  the  town-talk.  The  evening  before  the  day  fixed  for  the 
execution  of  the  condemned,  the  almoner  of  the  prison  fell  ill.  A  priest 
was  needed  to  attend  the  prisoner  in  his  last  moments.  The  curate  was 
sent  for,  but  it  seems  that  he  refu.«ed  to  go,  saying,  "  That  does  not 
concern  me.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  drudgery,  and  with  that 
mountebank;  besides,  I 'am  sick  myself,  and  mpreover,  it  is  not  ray 
post"  Wlien  this  reply  was  reported  to  the  bishop,  he  said,  "The 
(■urate  is  right,  it  is  not  his  post,  but  mine." 

He  immediately  repaired  to  the  prison,  went  down  into  the  cell  of  the 
"mountebank,"  called  him  by  name,  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  talked 
with  him.  He  spent  the  whole  day  with  him,  forgetful  of  food  and 
sleep,  praying  to  God  for  the  soul  of  the  comlenmed,  and  beseerhing  the 
condemned  for  his  own  soul's  sake  He  recalled  to  him  the  best,  wliich 
are  the  simplest  truths.  He  wa^s  father,  brother,  friend;  bi,-hop  for 
blessing  only.  He  taught  him  everything  in  the  act  of  sustaining  and 
comforting  liim.  The  man  would  ofliL-rwisc  have  died  in  despair.  Death, 
I'nr  him,  was  like  an  abyss.  Standing  shivering  upon  the  dreadful  brink, 
he  recoiled  with  horror.  He  was  nit  ignorant  cnongh  to  be  indiflerent. 
The  terrible  shock  of  his  condemnation  had  in  some  sort  broken  here  and 
there  that  wall  wliich  separates  us  from  the  mystery  of  things  beyond, 
and  which  we  call  life.     Through  these  fatal  breaches  he  was  constantly 


iO  LES   )fIS/^RABLE8.  * 

lookinjr  h<>ron<l  thin  world,  and  he  could  sec  DOtbiDg  but  darkness;  tbe 
\  '  itn  the  light. 

.w,  when  they  came  for  the  poof  man,  tbe  bishop  wa- 
Wjih  ii.iu  III!  fylUwred  him.  :ir)d  jihowcd  liitusclf  to  the  eyes  of  the 
crow  i  in  hin  purple  rrn-hct,  with  his  epi.^copal  cross  about  his  neck,  sidi- 
bf  ^id^•  wiih  the  wretcli,  who  was  bound  with  cordn. 

With  him  he  mounted  the  car,  and  with  him  ascended  the  scaffold. 
Tbe  culprit,  who,  on  the  eve,  had  been  so  gloomy  and  so  horror-stricken, 
will  now  ru'liant  with  hope.  He  felt  that  bis  soul  was  reconciled  and  hi- 
trui»ted  in  <iod.  The  bishop  embraced  him.  and  at  the  moment  when 
the  axe  was  about  to  fall,  lie  said  to  him,  ''  Whom  man  kills,  him  (lod 
restorcih  to  life;  whom  his  brethren  put  uway,  he  lindcth  the  Father. 
Pray,  believe,  enter  into  life !  The  Father  is  there."  Whon  he 
descended  from  tbe  scaffold,  something  in  bis  look  made  the  people  ftll 
back.  It  would  be  bard  to  .say  which  was  the  more  wonderful,  his  pale- 
ness or  his  serenity.  As  he  entered  the  humble  dwelling  which  he 
smilingly  called  bis  pu^ace,  he  said  to  hi.s  sister,  "  I  have  been  ofiiciatiliu 
pontitically." 

As  the  most  sublime  things  are  often  least  comprehended,  there  were 
those  in  the  city  who,  in  commenting  up')n  the  bishop's  conduct,  called 
it  affectation  ;  this,  however,  wa.*;  merely  the  chit-chat  of  morning  calls. 
The  people,  who  do  not  look  for  unworthy  motives  in  holy  works, 
admired  and  were  softened. 

As  to  the  bishop,  the  sight  of  the  guillotine  was  a  shock,  and  it  was 
long  before  he  recovered  from  its  effects.  There  is,  indeed,  in  tbe  scaf- 
fold, when  set  up  right  before  your  eyes,  something  which  hallucinates 
the  mind.  Wc  may  be  indifferent  to  the  death  penalty,  and  may  not 
declare  ourselves,  yes  or  no,  so  long  as  we.  have  not  .'jccn  a  guillotine 
with  our  own  eyes;  but  should  we  stumble  upim  one,  the  shock  is  vio- 
'lent,  and  wo  are  compelled  to  decide  and  take  part  for  or  against.  Some, 
like  de  .^laistre,  admire ;  others,  like 'JJecearia,  execrate  its  ministry.* 
The  guillotine  is  the  embodiment  of  the  law;  it  is  called  the  Avenger. 
It  is  ni  ither  neutral,  nor  does  it  allow  you  to  be  neutral.  He  who  sec.^ 
it  shivers  witli  the  most  mysterious  of  shivcrings.  All  social  (|uestfons 
Bet  their  points  of  interrogation  about  this  cleaver.  The  scaffold  is  u 
spectre.  It  is  not  a  mere  frame,  not  a  machine,  not  an  inert  piece  of 
mechiiniviii  m:ide  of  wood,  of  iron  and  of  ropos.  It  seetns  to  be  a  sort 
of  biing  which  liears  within  it,self  some  darksome  beginning  of  action, 
of  which  we  have  but  a  shadowy  notjon  ;  we  might  siiy  that  that  j)icce 
of  caryicntrj' has  eyes,  the  machine  ha,s  ears,  the  mechauism  understand- 
ing; that  wood,  iron  and  ropes  have  a  will.  In  the  tearful  reverie  into 
which  its  presence  lures  the  soul,  the  scaffold  looms  up  terrible,  blending 


*  Count  de  Maistre,  one  of  the  most  vigoroos  thinkers  of  tbe  age,  however 
nUra  in  his  dortrincs,  vindicated  the  scaObld  as  the  corner-stone  of  .society  ; 
wllil^t,  to  iii.s  mind,  the  public  executioner  ia  tiic  liigli-jirii'.''t  of  Bocin)  order. 
Bfc-iriii,  on  the  contrary,  in  his  magnificent  tron.ti.'-e,  Dri  deliiti  e  ddlr.  ptnc, 
trirn^  Kw\  the  relation  between  crimes  and  penalticH,  concluden  npainst  the  doc- 
tniir  fpf  rn|.iial  punishment.  It  is  hanilj'  neccsgary  to  advert  to  the  fact  that 
Vifi  ir  lltigi  himself,  among  other  nidioalisms.  has  long  been  an»assailant  of 
capitil  puniHhmcnt.  The  thrilling  paged  of  "The  Last  Day  of  a  Conyiot,"  ia  a 
most  eloquent  protest  against  the  right  of  society  to  inflict  death. 


FANTINE.  21 

its  very  apparition  with  the  consciousness  of  its  horrid  work.  The  scaf- 
fold is  the  accoiHplice  of  the  executioner;  it  devours,  it  eats  flesh,. and 
it  drinks  blood.  The  scaffold  is  a  sort  of  uionster  created  by  the  judge 
and  the  carpenter,  a  spectre  which  seems  to  livoa  sort  of  appalling  life, 
liiade  up  of  all  the  deaths  which  it  has  inflicted. 

Hence,  horrible  and  deep  was  the  impression  it  produced.  On  the 
morrow  of  the  execution;  and  for  many  days,  the  bishop  appeared  to  be 
prostrated.  The  almost  violent  calmness  of  the  funeral  hour  had  passed 
::way,  and  he  seemed  to  be  haunted  by  the  phantom  of  social  justice. 
He,  who  ordinarily  looked  back  upon  all  his  actions  with  so  radiant  a 
satisfaction,  now  seemed  to  be  a  walking  self-reproach.  At  times  he 
would  Uilk  to  himself,  and  in  an  under  tone  stammer  out  dismal  mono- 
I'tgues.  One  evening  his  sister  overheard  and  preserved  the  following  : 
"  I  did  not  believe  the  thing  so  monstrous.  It  is  wrong  to  be  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  divine  law  as  to  lose  sight  of  the  human  law.  Death 
lielongs  to  God  alon«.  By  what  warranty  do  men  touch  that  wonderful 
right?" 

With  the  lapse  of  time  these  impressions  faded  away,  and  were  prob- 
•ibly  effaced.  Nevertheless  it  was  remarked  that  the  bishop,  ever  after, 
voided  passing  by  the  place  of  execution. 

Mr.  Myriel  could,  at  any  hour,  be  called  to  minister  at  the  bed-side  of 
the  sick  and  of  the  dying.  He  knew  well  that  there  was  his  highest 
duty  and  his  greatest  work.  Widowed  or  orphan  families  had  no  need 
to  send  for  him — he  canje  of  himself.  Pie  would  sit  silent  for  long 
{lOurs  by  the  side  of  a  matf  who  had  %st  the  wife  whom  he  loved,  or  of 
a  mother  who  had,  lost  her  child.  As  he  knew  the  time  for  silence,  ho 
knew  also  the  time  for  speech.  Oh,  the  admirable  comforter,  who  did 
not  seek  to  drown  grief  in  oblivion,"  but  to  exalt  and  to  dignify  it  by 
hope.  He  would  say,  '*'  Be  careful  of  the  way  in  which  you  think  of 
the  dead.  Think  not  of  what  is  rotting  in  the  grave.  Look  steadfastly 
:'nd  you  .shall  i«ee  the  living  glory  of  the  beloved  dead  in  the  depths  of 
Jieavcn."  He  knew  the  wholesomeness  of  faith.  He  sought  to  counsel 
jind  compose  the  despairing  man  by  pointing  out  to  him  the  man  of 
resignation,  and  to  transform  the  bereavement  which  looks  into  the 
grave,  by  showing  it  the  sorrow  which  looks  up  to  the  stars. 


WHICH   SHOWS   TII.VT   MV  LORD  BIENVENU   MADE   HIS   CASSOCKS  LAST 

TOO  LONG. 

The  private  life  of  Mr.  Myriel  teemed  with  the  thoughts  of  his  public 
life.     To  one   who   could   have   looked    clo.sely   into   it,    the   voluntary 

Y»overty  in  which  the  bishop  of  D lived,  would  have  been  a  serious 

•^  well  as  a  pleasant  sight. 

Like  all  oM  men,  and  like  most  thinkers,  ho  slept  but  little,  but  that 
ittle  was  sound.  In  the  morning  he  devoted  an  hour  to  moditatioD, 
.'.nd  then  said  mass,  either  at  the  cathedral  or  id  his  own  house.  After 
riiass,  he  took  his  breakfast  of  rye  bread  aod  milk,  ond  then  went  to 
work. 


22  LES  m:ekrablbf. 

A  bUhop  is  t  Tcry  bai^jr  man  ;  he  must  roceirc  the  report  of  the  clerk 
of  U'f  <l>oc«*\  ordinarily  a  prtibcndary,  every  day  ;  and  nearly  every 
d«T  hi>  prati'J  vicars.  He  has  congregations  to  Ruperintend,  licenses  to 
nmat,  a  whole  ecdesia»ti>-al  book-Htorc  to  examine,  formularies  of  pray- 
er*, dinr/nan  eatochi-sms,  manuals  of  devotions,  <kc.,  <.Vc.,  chav<;es  ro 
vritr   '  ^  to  authurize,  cunit<s  and  mayors  to  make  peace  between, 

»clri  jinidcncc,  an  adniini.si rati vc  correspondence,  on   the  one 

L:ind  tiio  Cl>AcrnaieDt,  on  the  other  the '  Holy  Sec,  a  thousand  matters 
of  bu!<inc?s. 

What  lime  these  various  affairs  and  his  devotions  nnd  his  breviary 
kflbiin,  he  gave  first  to  the  ni.edy,  tiie  sick  and  the  afilioted  ;  what  time 
the  afllictcd,  the  sick,  and  the  ne^-dy  left  him,  he  gave  to  labor.  Some- 
times he  used  a  spade  in  his  garden,  and  sometimes  he  road  and  wrote. 
He  had  but  one  name  for  these  two  kinds  of  labor;  he  called  them  gar- 
dening.    "The  spirit  is  a  garden,"  sai  i  he. 

Towards  noon,  when  the  weather  was  good,  ho  would  walk  out  into 
the  fiolfls,  or  in  the  city — often  visiting  the  hovels  on  his  way.  lie 
mighi  be  seen  plodding  along  with  downcast  eyes,  resting  upon  his  long 
cane,  wearing  his  purple  comfort,  wadded  so  as  to  be  very  warm,  purple 
Blockings  and  hcayy  shoes,  and  his  flat  hat — from  the  tiiree  corners  of 
which  hung  three  golden  tas^sels. 

Ili.s  appearclnce  was  the  signal  for  a  holiday.  One  would  have  said 
that  he  dispensed  warmth  and  light  as  he  pas,sed  along.  Old  people 
and  children  would  come  to  tln.'ir  dt)ors  for  the  bishop,  as  they  would  for 
the  ."-un.  He  blessed  them,  and* he  was  Wc.^^.sed  by  them  in  return. 
Whoever  was  in  need  of  any  thing,  was  shown  the  way  to  his  house. 

Hero  and  there  he  would  stop  and  talk  to  the  little  boys  and  girls — 
greiting  the  uiothers  with  a  smite.  80  long  as  his  purse  was  full,  he 
visited  the  pwr ;  when  it  was  empty,  his  visits  were  to  the  rich. 

As  ho  had  made  his  cassocks  last  a  very  k)ng  time,  in  order  that  the 
■wear  might  not  be  perceived  he  never  went  abroad  clad  otherwise  than 
in  his  purple  comfort.     This  was  rather  trying  in  the  symmer  days. 

On  his  return  he  dined.     The  dinner  was  very  much  like  a  breakfast. 

At  half-past  eight  in  the  evening,  he  took  r-upper  with  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Magluire  standing  behind  them  and  waiting  on  tin;  table.  Nothing 
could  be  more  frugal  than  this  moul.  If  however,  the  bi.shop  had  one 
of  his  curates  to  supper,  Mrs.  Magloire  improved  the  occasion  to  treat 
his  lor<lship  to  some  delicate  fish  from  the  lakes,  or  somo  choice  game 
from  the  mountain.  A  visit  from  any  of  the  curates  afforded  a  pretext 
for  a  choice  dinner,  and  iu  that  case  the  bishop  allowed  himself  to  bo 
managi'd  by  his  housekeeper.  With  these  exceptions,  there  w^a  rarely 
Been  ujion  hi.s  table  more  than  boiled  vcgetabli\'<  or  a  stow  of  bread  and 
oil.  And  80  it  came  to  be  a  saying  in  the  city,  "  When  the  bishop  doo.< 
not  feast  a  curate,  he  fares  as  a  Truppi.'t." 

After  supper  he  would  ehat  for  half  an  hour  with  Miss  liapti.stine 
and  .^I^s.  Magloire,  and  then  go  to  his  own  room  and  write,  sometimes 
upon  loo.sc  Bhect«,  .semctimes  on  the  margin  of  one  of  his  folios.  He 
wan  a  literary  and  somewhat  of  a  scientiCc  man.  He  has  loft  five  or  six 
rather  curious  manuscripts  ;  among  which  is  a  dissertation  upon  this 
passage  in  Genesis  :  In  the  beijiiinin;/  the  >qnrit  of  God  moved  iipon  the. 
/ace  "J  the  xcatcrs.     Ue  contrasts  this  version  with  three  other  texts ; 


FANTINE.  23 

Tfith  the  Arabic,  which  has:  The  winds  of  God  u-ere  breathing ]  with 
the  text  of  Flavius  Joscphus,  who  says:  A  wind  from  on  hi<jh  rus^hcd 
upoii  the  earth;  and  finally  fhe  Chaldaic  parapbase  of  Onkelosie,  which 
reads:  A  tr*ind  coming  from  God,  breathed  upon  the  face  of  the  tcatcrs. 
In  another  dissertation  he  examines  the  theolo;>;ical  works  of  Flugo, 
bishop  of  Ptolomas,  a  great  grand-nncle  of  the  writer  of  this  book,  and 
proves  that  sundry  little  tracts,  published  in  the  last  century,  under  the 
pseudonym  of  Rarleycourt,  should  be  attributed  to  that  prelate. 

Sometimes  in  the  midst  of  his  reading,  whatever  the  book  might  be, 
he  would  suddenly  be  absorbed  in  a  deep  meditation,  awakening  fros» 
which,  he  would  proceed  to  write  a  few  lines  on  the  pages  thcms'.lvcs  of 
the  volume  before  him.  These  lines  often  have  no  reference  to  the  book 
in  which  thoy  are  written.  We  have  under  our  own  eyes  a  note  writteTi 
by  him  upon  the  margin  of  a  quarto  volume  entitled  :  ^'Correspondence 
of  Lord  Germain-  with  General  Clinton  and  General  Cornicaliis,  and 
with  fhe  A<hnirals  of  the  Amcriea?i  Naval  Statio7i.  Ventailles;  I^oin- 
sot)  Book-^eUcr  :  and  Paris,  Pissot,  quay  of  St.  Austin." 

And  this  is  the  note: 

"  Oh  Thou  who  art ! 

"  Ecclesiastes  calls  thee  All-Power;  the  Maccabees  call  thee  Creator; 
the  epistle  to  the  p]phesians  calls  thee  '  The  freedom  of  the  sons  of  God.' 
Earuch  gives  thee  the  name  of  Immensity  I  The  Psalms  name  thve  as 
Wisdom  and  Truth;  St.  John  calls  thee  Light.  The  Book  of  Kings 
calls  thee  Lord.  Exodus  calls  thee  Providence;  Leviticus,  Holiness; 
Esdras,  .Justice ;  Creation  calls  thee  God;  man.  Father;  but  So^cjmoa 
calls  thee  Mercy,  and  that  is  the  most  beautiful  of  the  names  by  'ivhich 
thou  art  invoked  I" 

Towards  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  two  women  were  accu.stomedi 
to  retire  to  their  chambers,  in  the  second  story,  leaving  him  until  morn- 
ing alone  upon  the  lower  floor. 

Here  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  give  an  exact  idea  of  the  dwelling 
of  the  bifihop  of  D . 


VI. 

BY    WHOM    DE   HAD   WATCH   AND   WARD   OF    HIS   HOUSE. 

The  house  which  he  tenanted,  as  we  have  already  mentioned,  co;i!~i?ted 
in  a  ground-Soor  and  a  single  story.  On  the  ground  floor  thcr<;  were 
three  apartment'^,  on  the  up-story  three  rooms,  and  above  these  a  garret. 
In  the  re^r  of  the  hou.se  was  a  garden  of  about  a  quarter  of  a.i  ;icre. 
The  two  women  occupied  the  upper  floor;  the  bishop  lived  below.  The 
first  room,  opening  on  the  street,  was  u-sed  as  the  dining-roon*,  the 
second  was  his  bed-room,  and  the  third  was  his  private  oratory.  There 
wat^  no  issue  from  the  oratory  unless  through  the  bed-room,  nor  Jfave 
the  bed-room  without  pasiihg  through  the  dining-room.  At  the  f;:r  en«l 
of  the  oratory  th^re  was  an  alcove  closed  in,  with  a  bed  for  the  dcojands 
of  hospitality.  The  bishop  kept  this  bed  for  the  country  curatewj  whea 
business,  or  the  wants  of  their  parish,  brought  theiji  to  D . 

The  pharmacy  cf  the  hospital,  a  little  building  adjoining  the  hou9«, 


24  LE8   MI8KRABLES. 

aod  cut  off  fttjm  tlic  garden  plat,,  had  beeu  transformed  into  a  kitchen 
and  cellar. 

Ther«  was  also  a  stable  in  the  garden,  which  had  formerly  been  the 
f  pital  kitchen,  where  the  bishop  now  kept  a  couple  of  cows.  Of  what- 
.  .  :  'luaiitily  of  the  milk  which  they  yielded,  he  invariably  sent  one- 
t^ll  every  mnrnlrn  to  the  !-ick  at  the  hospital.  "Thus  do  I  pay  my 
(ithen,"  would  he  say. 

His  roftm  was  quite  larj^c,  and  was  difficult  to  warm   in   bad  weather. 

As  wood  was  very  dear  at   I> ,  he   conceived  the  idea  of  having  a 

room  partitioned  off  from  the  eow-stable  with  a  tight  plank  coiling, 
'i'hcre,  during  the  intense  cold  would  he  spend  his  evening.^,  in  what  he 
called  his  icinter  parlor. 

In  this  winter  parlor,  as  in  the  dining-room,  the  only  furniturb  was  a 
fi  juare  white  wooden  table,  and  four  straw-bot<omed  chairs.  The  dining- 
room,  however,  was  set  off  by  an  old  pink-stained  sideboard.  A  similar 
sideboard,  suitably  draped  with  white  linen  and  imitation-lace,  the 
bishop  had  converted  into  an  altar,  which  decorated  his  oratory. 

His  rich   penitents  and  the   pious  women  of  D had   repeatedly 

clubbed  together  the  money  for  a  beautiful  new  altar  for  his  lordship's 
oratory,  but  as  often  had  he  taken  the  money  and  given  it  to  the  poor. 
"The  most  beautiful  of  altars,"  said  he,  "is  the  soul  of  tl>c  solaced 
unfortunate,  returning  thanks  to  God." 

In  his  oratory  he  had  two  straw-worked  camp-stools,  and  an  arm  chair, 
*also  of  straw,  in  the  bed-room.  When  he  happened  to  have  seven  or 
eight  visitors  at  once,  the  prefect,  general,  or  the  staff-officers  of  the  regiment 
in  the  garri.son,  or  some  of  the  pupils  of  the  lower  seminary,  he  was 
obliged  to  go  to,  the  stable  for  the  chairs  that  were  in  the  winter  parlor, 
to  the  oratory  for  the  camp-stools,  and  to  thi;  bed-room  for  the  arm  chair; 
in  this  way  he  could  accommodate  as  many  as  eleven  visitors  with  seats. 
I'or  each  new  visitor  a  room  was  stripped. 

It  happened  sometimes  that  there  wore  twelve;  when  the  bishop 
glossed  over  the  difficulty  of  the  occasion  by  standing  before  the  tire,  if 
it  were  winter,  or  by  walking  in  tlie  garden,  if  it  were  summer. 

There  was  another  chair  in  the  guests'  alcove,  but  it  had  lost  half  its 
straw,  and  had  but  three  legs,  so  that  it  could  be  used  only  when  stand- 
ing against  the  wall.  Miss  Baptistine  had  alsQ,  in  her  room,  a  very 
roomy  wooden  lounge,  that  had  been  once  gilded  and  covered  with  flow- 
ered silk,  but  as  it  had  to  be  takeu  into  her  room  through  the  window, 
the  stairway  being  too  narrow,  it  could  not  be  counted  among  the  avail- 
able items  (if  furniture. 

The  purchase  of  a  piece  of  furniture  something  like  a  parlor  lounge, 
with  Utrecht  velvet  cushions  worked  with  roses  on  a  yellow  ground,  and 
mahoL'any  supports  carved  in  the  form  of  .swan's  necks,  might  nave  been 
the  aim  of  Mi.ss  IJaptistine's  ambition.  Its  gratilicatinu,  however, 
would  have  cost  some  five  hundred  francs ;  while,  for  all  the  savings  of 
five  years,  she  had  been  able  to  hourd  up  forty-two  franca  and  ten  sous 
only,  for  a  purpose  which  she  finally  concluded  to  forego.  After  all,  who 
has  ever  compassed  the  realities  of  his  dream  ? 

Nothing  plainer  could  be  imagined  than  the  bishop's  bed-room.  A 
window  coming  down  to  the  floor  and  opening  on  the  garden,  facing  this, 
the  bed — an  iron  hospital  bed,  with  a  green  serge  pavilion.     Concealed 


FANTINE.  ,  25 

in  the  sliadow  of  the  bed,  behind  a  curtain,  toilet  articles,  still. spealvin» 
of  (he  former  refined  habits  of  the  man  of  the  world.  Then  two  dooi* 
— one  .near  the '  fire  phice,  looking-  into  (he  orafpr^— the  other,  near  the 
library,  leading  into  the  dining-room.  The  library,  a  large  case  with 
glass  (Toors,  and  its  hoard  of  books;  the  chimney,  cased  in  niarWe- 
painted  wood,  habitually  unchecred  by  a  lire;  on  the  hearth,  a  brace  of 
andirons,  topped  by  wreathed  and  fluted  vases,  once  plated  with  silver 
etchings,  a  kind  of  episcopal  extravagance  y  above  the  marble,  a  braaa 
crucifix,  from  which  the  silver  washing  had  passed  away,  resting  on  a 
threadbare  piece  of  black  velvet,  set  in  a  wooden  frame,  from  which  the 
gilding  had  gone ;  near  the  window  a  large  table  with  an  inkstand, 
covered  with  scattered  papers  and  heavy  volumes.  la  front  of  the 
table  was  the  straw  armchair,  and  before  the  bed  the  camp-stool  from 
the  oratory.  "  ■  '  -  . 

Two  portraits,  in  oval  frames,  hung  on  the  wall  on  either  side  of  the 
bed.  Small  gilt  inscriptions  upon  the  background  of  the  canvas  indi- 
cated that  the  portraits  represented,  one,  the  vfbbe  do  Chaliot,  bishop  of 
Saint  Claude,  the  other,  the  Abb6  Tourteau,  vi^ar-general  of  Agde, 
Abbe  of  Grandehamps,  order  of  Citeaux,  diocese  of  Chartres.  The 
bishop  found  these  portraits  when  he  succeeded  to  the  hospital  patients 
in  this  chamber,  and  left  them  untouched.  They  were  priests,  and 
probably  contributors  to  the  hospital — two  reasons  wh}'  he  should  respect 
them.  All  that  he  knew  of  these  two  personages  was  that  they  had 
been  named  by  the  king,  the  one  to  his  bishopric,  the  other  to  his  living, 
ou  the  same  day,  the  twenty. seventh  of  April,  1785.  Mrs.  Magloire 
having  taken  down  the  pictures  to  wipe  off  the  dust,  the  bishop  had 
found  this  circumstance  recorded  in  a  faded  ink  upon  a  little  square 
piece  of- paper,  stuck  by  four  wafers  on  the  back  of  the  portrait  of  the 
Abb6  of  Grandehamps. 

He  had  at  his  window  an  antiqiie  curtain  of  coarse  woolen  stuff,  which 
finally  became  so  old  that,  to  save  the  expense  of  a  new  one,  Mrs.  Ma-' 
gL'ire  was  obliged  to  take  in  a  large  seam  in  the  very  middle  of  it. 
This  seam  was  in  the  form  of  a  cross.     The  bi.shop  often  called  attention 
to  it.     "  IIow  well  that  suits,"  he  would  say. 

Every  room  in  "the  house,  on  the  ground  floor,  as  well  as  in  the  upper 
story,  without  exception,  was  whitewashed,  which  is  the  style  of  bar- 
racks and  of  hospitals. 

However,  in  Inter  years,  as  we  shall  see  by-and-by,  IMrs.  Magloire 
found,  under  the  wall-paper,  the  paintings  whicii  decorate  thoaiipartmcnt 
of  Miss  IJaptistiii".  linfore  irwas  a  hospitiil,  the  house  had  been  a  sort 
of  gathering-place  for  the  citizens,  at  whicli  time  these  decorations  were 
introduced.  The  floors  of  the  chambers  were  paved  with  red  brick, 
which  were  scoured  every  week,  fmd  before  the  beds  straw  matting  waa 
spread.  In  all  respects,  the  house  kept  by  these  two  women  only  wa« 
exquisitely  neat  from  top  to  bottom.  This  was  the  only  luxury  that  the 
biehop  Would  allow.  lie  would  say,  "  That  takct  nothiiv/  from  the 
jwor.'^ 

Wo  must,  however,  confess  that  outr  of  what  he  had  formerly -owned, 

he  still  retained  .mx  silver  soup  dishes  and   a  silver  soup  ladle,  wldch 

Mrs    Magloire  contcrflplated  every  day  with  renewed  joy,  as  flicy  shone 

on  the  coarse,  whit«  linen  table-cloth.     And  as  we  are  drawing  the  por- 

3 


20  l.KS   MIsftRADLL5. 

trail  i.f  llic  Bii»h(ip  of  D jus«  »»  ^>^*  wa»,  wo  must  aJ.l.lliat  he  li«J 

*iJ,  m.-rc  th:in  oncf,    "It  would   be   uifl'uult   for  lue  to  gi\x>  up  e-iting 
•^  of  i>ilv<r  i>laie." 

Willi   llii-  filvcr  wnre  Klioiild   be  counted    two   lar«;e,  niass-iv^  ^iIv^T 

^  ^ra»cli  rundlo!«li<.-kH,  which  he  liad  iuhcriti-d   IVoni  a  gri-ut-aunt.     Th«se 

■    ©•Otll'-tick.'*  hcM  t"^  ^^"^  caiidle.H,  ami  thtir  plaie  was  up>  ii  the  bi.shii]>'8 

■mill  l-tii<'CC   '    WIk-d    he   had   aii^  ouc   lo   diuiicr,  Mrs.  Ma^loire  would 

h«ht  ihf  twn  camHcs,  and    jtWce  the  two  cuii<llc>li(tk8  ujmui   liic  t^ildo 

Tlap'  w.iH  ie>  the  hi>li(.p's  ch:Uiibi;r.  at  the  head  of  his  bed,  a  hiiiall 
ewpboird  ill  which  Jlrs  Majiloirc  placed  ihe  .six  >ilver  di^h«<«  and  the 
groal  la'ilf'  every  evening.  .  15ui  the  key  w  s  never  takoo  out  of  it. 

TJi"  j^arden,. which  wa.s  sonjcwhat  niarrirJ  !•}•  tlie  un-i^^htly  structures 
of  wliicii  we  have  hpokcii,  was  lai  I  out  wah  four  walk-  in  tlie  furni  o(  n, 
erc^K,  nieciin^  at  the  draiuwtll  in  the.cen  re.  Thcr«  wa.s  auoilier  walk 
which  made  ilic  circuit  of  the  parden,  along  tl.e  white  wall  which  eu- 
eloHed  it.  Tliese  walks  left  four  scj'iare  pl;it>  which  Were  bi>rd«red. with 
box  In  tlircc  of  theiu*iMr.«  Magloiie  t  nllivalid  vcgpiablis;  iu  the 
f4«ttrt)i  the  bishop  haj  plan.'ed  flowers,  and  here  and  tlure  were  a  few 
fruk  trees.  Mr.s.  i^lagloire  once  said  to  him  with  a  kind  of-  pi-nilo 
r^pri'ach  :  "  My  Lord,  you  arc  ever  3iiixiou.M  to  make  cverythini;  useful, 
but  yet  here  is  a  plat  tlint  is  of  no  use  it  wtuld  be  much  bcttert» 
have  salads  tlicro  than  boufjuciai  "  "Mrw.  Maglnire,"  replied  the 
bif'hop,  "you  mi.stuke.  The  beuuiilul  is  as  useful  as  the  u.s;.ful."^  II'> 
added,  afl4'r  a  moment's  .^ilcfK-e,   "  more  so,  peihaps.'j 

This  plat,  cfinsi.stinj:  of  throe  or  four  bed;*,  engaged  the  bishop  nearly 
a«  lunch  as  his  books.  lie  usually  pa.ssed  an  hour  or  two  there,  trini- 
mihg,  wcciling,  and  making  liohs  here  and  there  iu  the  ground,  aud 
planting  seeds.  He  was  nut  (juiie  as  hostile  to  insects  as  a  gardeucr 
mii'ht  have  wished.  He  made  no  p:7len.>.i>iii.s  to  b'ltuny,  aod  knew 
nothing  of  groups  or  eonipusitinn  of  bodies;  he  did  not  care  in  the 
'least  to  deeiflo  between  Tourncfnrt  ami  the  naluial  method;  he  touk  no 
part,' either  for  the  utricles  again.vt  the  eotyloduns,  or  for  Jussicu  against 
Iiinn;cu8  He  wa's  ih>  di.ssei-lcr  of  plants;  but  u  lover  of  fi'iwers.  IIo 
bad  much  respect  fur  the  learned;  but  sull  more  for  the  ignorant;  and, 
while  he  nev<r  failed  in  ciiher  of  these  respects,  he  •watered  li'i-i  beds 
every  summer  (evening  \»ilh  a  tin  waterint^pul  painted  green. 

N'll  a  door  in  the  house  had  a  lock.  'J'Ik!  door  of  the  dining  room 
which,  as  we  have  mentioned,  opened  dir.'elly  on  tlie  cathedral  sipiarc, 
Wis  formftly  loaded  with  locks  and  boLs  lii>e  the  door  of  a  prison. 
The  bishop  had  had  all  (his  ironw«irk  taken  oil,  an4  'hu  *l"or,  by  night 
kH  well  as  by  day,  wa.s  closed  only  "h  ih,.  jjitch.  The  pas.serby,  what- 
ever might  be  the  hour,  eould  open  it  with  a  simple  p\ish.  At  tirst  tlio 
two  women  had  bec'u  Very  much  irouhled  at  tlwr  door  being  ni'vcr  locked; 

but    My   Lord    of    D said   fo  ihem  :    ''  Have  ledts  on    your  own 

doors,  if  you  like"  They  joined,  at  last,  in  hi.s  confiding  trust,  or  at 
•  least  acted  as  if  they  shared  it.  Mrs.  Mng'oire  alone  hail  her  occasional 
visii.iiioiiH  of  fear  As  lo  the  bi.>hi>p,  an  i'.x(,lanation,  or  an  indii-atioa 
»t  Un>t  of  his  thought  on  the  fcuhj'  et.  may  be  found  in  the  three  (ollow- 
inir  lines,  written  by  him  on  the  margin  (.f  a  biblo:  "A  sh.de  of 
meaoiojr  ;»tlic  phy-iclaii's  door  should  never  bo  closed;  the  door  of  tL') 
pritsl  should  ever  be  opcu."  • 


FANTINE.  2t 

In  another  boolc,  entitled  Pluloxophie  ife  la  Scimr.e  Mt'<fir(iie,'hQ 
wrote  this  furlhor  note  :  "Am  I  oi)t  a  phjsiciun  as  well  ;is  th^j  ?  J 
also  iiavo  my  pafionts  ;  first  I  have  tlieirt^,  wliom  they  call  the  sioks 
and  then  J  have  my  own,  whom  I  call  the  unfortunate." 

Son)o where  else  again  bad  h(5  writt'jn  :  "  Do  not  ask  him  for  hw 
name  who  asks  you  for  a  bed.  He  Especially  needs  a  refqgo  whose 
uanie  is  an  eneunibrauce  to  hinj." 

It  happened  that  a  worthy  curate,  I  am  not  emre  whether  it  was  tfte 
curate  of  Onuloubroux  or  the  curate  of  Pompierry,  ventured  to  ask  hina 
one  d«y,  probably  at  the  inefigation  of  iMr.s.  Magloire,  if  his  Lordship 
were  quite  pure  that  there  w^s  not  ti  degree  of  imprudence  in  lesiviog 
liis  dour,  day  and  night,  free  to  all  who  might  wish  to  enter,  and  if  h^ 
did  not  frar  that  poine  evil  would  befall  a  house' so  poorly  defended. 
The  bishop  touched,  him  gently  on  tht;  shoulder,  and  said  :*  "  iVi's* 
J)(fmi)ntK  rux.'oih'erit  civitdfrm,  fruntra  riyilut  qui  cu&todit  earn.'* 

And  then  he  changed  the  subject. 

lie  very  often  said  :  "  There  is  a  bravery  for  the  priest  as  well  as  ft 
liravery  for  the  colonel  of  dragoons."  "Only,"  added  ho,  *'ottra 
should  be -quiet  and  composed." 

• 


vii; 

CRAVATTE. 

This  is  the  proper  place  for  an  incident  whiah  we  may  not  omit,  for  it 
is  one  of  those  which  most  clearly  illustrate  the  cburaoter  of  the  Bi8h,oa 
of  B . 

After  the  destruction^  of  Gaspard  TxVs  armed  banditti,  which  haci 
infested  the  gorges  of  Ollioules,  one  of  his  lieutenants,  Oravatte,  topk 
refuge  in  the  mountains.  He  concealed  himself  for  some  time  with 
his  bandits,  tlic  remnant  of  the  troop  of  Gaspard  Hist,  in  the  county  of 
Nice,  then  made  his  way  >to  I'iodmont,  and  suddenly  re-appeared  in 
Fniuce  in  the  neighliorliood  of  IJarcel  innette.  He  was  first  seen  at 
Jauzier*.",  thcMi  at  the  Filts.  He  concealed  hin)self  in  the  caverns  of 
Jong  dc  r  Aigle,  from  which  he  made  descents  upon  .the  hamlets  anJ 
viilagiis  by  the  ravines  of  Ubaye  and  Ubiyette. 

Ho  even  pushed  as  far  as  Embrun,  and  one  night  broke  intt)  the  ca- 
thedral, and  stripped  the  sacristy  His  robberies  desolated  the  country. 
The  jrrusd'armes  were  put  upon  his  trail,  but  iu  vain.  He  always  escaped, 
BQmeiiiiics  by  furcible  re.sist;ince.  He  was  a  daring  scoundrel.  In  the 
midst  of  all  this  tei ror,  the  bishop  arrived.  He  was  making  hi.s  visij 
to  Cha-iL-lar  The  mayor  came  to  see  him  and  urg<^d  him  to  tnri\ 
back.  CraVatte  commanded  the  mountains  as  far  as  Arche,  and  b<'yund; 
there  w.is  peril  iu,the  journey,  even  with  »»  escort.  It  would  uselessly 
expu:M;  throe  or  four  poor  jrensd'armes  to  danger. 

i_ . 

*  We  liftvp  rP'-foroJ  tlie  text  of  the  pj>nlm,  wliicli  the  miihor,  no  douht  intcn- 
tionnlly,  misquote-l  to  meet  the  i<l'i  which  ttie  Rood  HiBliop  moant  to  convey. 
The  tr'in-lnlinn  <if  tlic  v«T.-«e,  in  :  "  UhU-hs  lh«  Lord  thall  keep  tbo  hjUMC,  [city,) 
he  waiihith  in  Tain,  tbal  kcopelh  it." 


gg  1.!  ^    >!i.-hRABLKi 

"Ami   tbcreryro,"    caiJ   tl:c    lishop,    "I    ratend   to   go  without  au 

OKOti".  .      , ,,.  ,  •        ,    . 

"  Do  you  (vrinusly  nic.nn  it,  mj  lord  ?      exclaimed  the  mayor. 
-  "I  ^o'rc•JII>  mean  it,  tl'^t  I  ab-olutely  refuse   the  gcnsd'iu mes,  aud  I 
, (Ongoing  to  hUrt  iu  an  hour." 

<•  To  start  ? "  *  , 

"To  start." 

"  Alone  ?  " 

"Alcne." 

"  My  Kt'I,  you  will  not  do  such  a  thinp." 

"Tin  ro  is  in  the  mountain."  ^ipliod  tlie  hishop,  "no  humble  little 
pliidh,  not  bigger* tLao  my  haud,  wliich  I  have  not  seen  for  three  \ear.s; 
and  they  are  good  frfbnd.«  of  mine,  kind  and  hune.st  luidsmen.  Th.ey 
©vyn  one  goat  out  of  thirty  that  they  pa.stur;).  They,  make  pretty  wooleu 
COrd.s  and  tas8cls  of  variegated  huen,  and  they  play  their  mountain  airs 
upon  small  six-holed  flutes.  Tiicy  need  some  one  occasionally  to  tell 
CLcm  of  the  gnodnes.s  of  God.  What  would  they  say  of  a  bi^^llopwho 
.is  afraid  5*     What  would  they  say  if  I  should  miss  them  in  my  rounds?" 

"  }Jut,  my  lord,  the  brigands  ?  " 

"True,"  said  the  bi.shop,  "and  now  the^hing  occurs  to  me,  you  are 
right.  1  may  meet  them.  They  too  mu.st  need  some  one  to  tell  them 
of  the  goodne.^s  of  pod." 

"  IJut,  my  lord,  it  is  a  band  I   a  pack  of  wolves  ! " 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  it  may  preci^iLly  be  of  thip  very  flock  that  my  Ma.ster 
haa  made  me  shepherd.     Who  knows  the  ways  of  Providence?". 

"My  lord,  they  will  rob  you.''  • 

"  1  have  nothing." 

"They  will  kill  you." 

"A  simple  old  priest  who  passes  along,  muttering  his  pFoycr  ?  No, 
BO  ;   what  good  would  it  do  ihcm  ?  " 

"Oil,  my  good  .sir,  suppose  you  sbpuld  fall  in  with  them  ?" 

"1  should  a-k  them  for  alms  for  uiy  poor." 

"  I^ly  lord,  do  not  go.  In  the  name  of  Heaven  I  you  are  cxpo.sing 
your  life." 

"  Mr.  Mayor,"  said  the  bishop,  "  is  that  decidedly  your  only  objec- 
tion ?  WvU,  then,  I  was  noj  gent  into  this  world  to  take  care  of  my 
life,  but  to  lake  care  of  souls." 

Thty  Jiad  to  allow  him  his  own  way.  lie  set  out,  accompanied  only 
by  a  child,  who  offered  to  go  as  his  guide.  His  ohsUiiacy  was  the  talk 
of  the  country,  and  all  dreaded  tlie  result. 

Uc  would  not  titke  along  cither  his  si-stcr,  or  Mrs.  Magloire.  lie 
qroKsed  the  mountuiu  on  a  mule,  met  no  one,  and  arrived  safe  and 
•ouod  among  Iuh  "good  friends,"  the  shepherds.  There  he  spent  a 
f.iri night,  preaebing,  admiui.'^tering  the  holy  rites,  teaching  and  moral- 
ning  them  When  he  was  about  to  leave,  he  resolved  to  chant  a  Te 
Douui,  in  his  pontificals.  lie  broke  the  matter  to  the  curate.  But 
wJiat  could  bp  done  ?  There  were  neither  episcojtal  vestures  or  orna- 
ments. They  oould  only  place  at  his  disposition  a  j)altry  village  sacristy, 
with  a  few  old  vestments  of  faded  dau.ask  trinimcd  with  tawdry  tinsel. 
._  "  No  matter,"  said  the  bishop,  "  Do  your  ]leverence,  at  the  sermon, 
jpvo  out  notice  of  our  Te  Deum.     Things  will  yet  turn  out  well." 


I-ANTINE.  '  39 

All  the  jpcigbboring  chuichcs  wore  ransacked,  but  tlie  rakings  of  the 
combined  magnificences  of  those  humble  parishes  could  hardly  have 
gupplird  a  decent  outfit  for  a  single  cathedral  chanter. 

While  they  wore  iu  this  dilonuna,  a  large  box  was  brought  to  the 
parsonage,  and  foft  for  the  bishop  by  two  unlmown  horsemen,  who  iiiv- 
mediately  rode  away.  The  box  was  opened;  it  contained  a  cope' of 
cloth  of  gold,  a  mitre  adorned  with  diamonds,  an  archbishop's  cross,  a 
niagni6cent  crosier,  and  all  the  pontifical  vestments  stolen  a  jiionth  be- 
fore from  the 'treasures  of  Our  Lady  of  Embrun.  In  the  box  was  a" 
paper  on  which  were  written  those  words :  "  From  Cravatte  to  Mon- 
sei'(/ii(  itr  Blrnvenu." 

"  I  said  that  inatJcrs  would  work  out  of  themselves,"  ""said  the 
bishop.  Then  he  added  with  a  smile ;  -"To  him  who  is  contented 
with"  the  surplice  of  a  curate,  Gocl  sends  the  pall  of  an  archbish(yp." 

"  My  ^  Lord,"  murmured'  the  curate,  with  a  nod  and  a  snlilo, 
"  God— or  the  devil." 

The  bishop   looked  steadily  at  the  curate,  and  replio^  with  gravity  ; 

"God!"  ..  • 

When  he  returned  to  Chastclar,  all  along  the  road,  the  *people  came 
with  curiosity  to  sec  him.  At  the  parsonage  in  Chastclar  he  found' 
Miss  Baptistinc  and  Mrs  Magloire  waiting  for  him,  and  he  said  to  hia  ' 
sister,  "  Well,  was  I  not  right  ?  The-  poor  priest  went  among  those 
poor  mount;iinecrs  with  empty  hands;  he  comes  back  with  hands  filled. 
I  went  forth  bearing  with  me  but  aiy  trust  in  God.  I  bring  back  the 
treasure  of  a  cathedral."  '  ^.       •' 

In  the  evening,  before  going  to  bed,  he  said  further  :  "  Have  no  fear 
of  thieves  or  murderers.  Thesa'  are  the  dangers,  the  trifling  danger^*, 
that  come  from  without.  But  let  us  fear  ourselves.  Our  prejudices  arc 
the  thieves,  our  vices  the  murdercra.  The  great  dangers  are  within  us. 
What  matters  that  which  threatens  our  heads  or  our  purse?  Let  ilB  ' 
think  only  of  what  threatens  our  souls." 

Then  turning  to  his  sister :  ''  Sister,  a  priest  should  never  take  sny 
precaution  against  his  neighbor^  What  hrs  neighbor  does,  God  permits. 
Let  us  confine  ourselves  to  prayer  to  God  when  we  think  that  danger 
hangs  ovir  us.  Lot  us  beseech  him,  not  for  ourselves,  but  that  car 
brother  may  not  fall  into  sin  on  our  account." 

To  sum  up,  great  events  were  rare  in  his  life.  We  relate  those  we 
know  of;  but  u.sually  he  passed  his  life  in  always  doing  the  same  things 
at  the  same  hours.  A  month  of  his  .  year  was  like  'an  hour  of  his 
day. 

As  to  what  became  of  the  "  treasure,"  of  the  Cathedral  of  Embrna, 
an  answer  to  any  fjuestion  on  that  point  might  prove  somewhat  embar- 
rassing. There  were  among  them  very  fine,  and  very  tempting,  and 
very  good  things,  to  steal  for  the  benefit  of  the  unfortunate.  Stolen 
they  had  already  been  by  others.  Half  the  work  was  done;  it  only 
remained  to  change  the  course  of  the  theft,  and  to  make  it  creep  a  little 
ahead  in  the^linction  of  tlic  poor.  ■  We,  however,  abstain  from  all  aflSt.- 
mation  on  thi.s  subject;  except,  that  among  the  bishop's  papers,  tiicre 
was  found  a  somewhat  ambigiioua  memorandum,  that  may  have  some 
bearing  on  the  ca.«!e,  and  which  reads  as  follows :  The  question  h, 
ichclhcr  this  thould  revert  to  the  cathedral  or  to  the  hospitals 


^9  LBS    MISKBADLKa. 

VIII.     .  * 

roST    IRAN  DIAL    rilll^BOPnY. 

TVie  Pcoator  lirroli.ri.ie  rtfirrcd  to  was  n  f.Iir<  wtl  man,  wl»o  Ind  made 
his  »>By  in  lif'-  wi'l"  a  (lirPftriC(»8  uf  puip"H.'  whu-h  licedi'd  iicne  of  th<«e 
«tuniblirii;M<xl^'"  v^^uch  build  up  <  bilatli-fl  kaowu  as  constiiiico.  sworn 
fiii lb.  justice  and  duly.  He  wnlkcd  slniigbt  up  to  bis  objrtt  iii  bfo,  nor 
Culicrid  onro  vn  tlio  line  of  HC'iradvuiUHiiient  and  8clf-iiitoTe>f.  He  had 
l>M'n  forniirly  a  crown  adonu-y,  liu:nanizcd  by  success  ;  by  hd  uioans  a 
bad  bfiiricd  man  ;  be,  on  fbe  ct-ntrhry,  would  iniul'ie  in  all  good  offices 
«»f  life,  in  which  he  oould,  in  lndi(ilr  of  bis  sons,  sons-in-law,  and  rela- 
tive* generally,  and  cv<  ii  of  bi«  fiiondft  Having  widely  taktu  life  in  its 
Wiorc  pleasant  ahpcctfl,  he  availed  himself  of  all  its  Oiti-^  oppirtunities 
and  lucky  windfalls.  Out  of  (bis  system  Bf  morals,  evorythini:  else  was 
tc  biiii  deeiiledly  stupd  lie  was  sjnighlly,  and  just  e' owiih  of  a 
pdiolar  to  think  himself  a  disciple  of  l'-(.ieurns;  while  po.-siltly  he  was 
only  a  produet  of  rij^mili-L'  biun.  He  liHigbed  readily  ami  with  <ius1o 
4it  iiifiuiti'  Hud  eternal  tliinfrs,  and  at  the  **  idle  dreams  of  this  j;ood 
ga(T<r  of  a  bishop."  Hefure  Mr  Myiiil  him.sclf  w1k»  list'iied  without 
iPibuke,  be  Wi'uld  poaietiuics  jeer  at  ihciii  with  an  uir  of  joeular 
«uth'>rity. 

On  ••ome  semiofficial  occasion,  Co'unt   ,  this    self-same  senalor, 

end  Mr  Myriel  were  biddcti  to  dinn<  r  with  (he  prefict  Atdcssert, 
Ihe.Ff uafor,  a  little  cxeited,  thou^Ii  n(ft  bcynnd  propriety,  exclaimed  : 

•'  K^ad,  ^>ish<>p,  l«t  us  t  ilk  It  is  diflkult  for  a  senator  and  u  bi-liop 
to  look  iHch  other  in  tin'  faec  without  i»  wink.  W'r  arc  two  augurs.  I 
Lave  a  confession  to  make  ;    1  have  I'ly  tiystem  of  philusuphy." 

•'And  you  arc  ri<iht,"  answered  the  bishop,  "As  one  builds  his  j)lii- 
lcs"phy,  so  he  rests.      You,  Mr   S«mitor,  lie  on  a  pujpio  couch." 

The  Bonator,  encouraged  by  this,  prociedcd  : 

"  Let  U8  be  pond  fellows.", 

"  Why  not. clever  devils,  oven?"  said  the  bishop. 

*' I  ashure  you,"  rosu'ncd  the  senator,  ''that  (ho  Marquis  d'  Atpens, 
Pyrrhi),  H(d)bofl,  and  M.  Naip<;eon  are  not  rascals  I  have  all  my  phi- 
losophy in  my  library,  bound  and  gilt-ciL'cd  " 

''  liike  yourself,   (louiit,"  iiitirriipted  the  bishop 

7"ht!  Kcuator  went  on  : 

''I  hate-  Diderot;  he  is  an  idealoyist,  a  deJuano'jue  and  a  revnlntionist 
ftl  beiirt.  a  believer  in  (Jml,  and  more  bifiotcd  than  Vcdtaiie.  Vi«Itaire 
jeered  h^^-edh  im,  and  he  was  wron^' ;  for  Needham's  tds  prove  that 
.ihcrc  is  no  need  of  tJod  A  dr^p  of  vincpir  in  a  spoonful  of  floHr- 
p9islo,  and  you  have  Ihe  fi.tl  lux — (he  "lot  there  be  light,"  of  this 
microcosm.  Suppose  a  bi^'gcr  drop  and  a  larger  spoon,  and  you  have 
Uii.s  %vorId.  Man  is  the  c.l.  Th' u  what  is  the  use  of  an  Eternal 
Father?  Hi^hnp,  ]  am  lir'il  of  ihi.s  h\  pothesis  of  u  Jrhovah.  It  la 
Oidy  fit  to  be^et  scninny  pcoitlc  and  sickly  drcimiers.  liowu  with  this 
^rcai  p  rpKxing  All  !  'Welcome  Zt  ro,  that  leave  s  me  in  peaee  !  Uo- 
-tw-en  us,  ti>  open  my  li.art,  and  confess  to  my  p.istor,  as  I  ought,  I 
WmI  c 'of  i!s  that  I  have  common  sense,!  am  n<'t  infatuated  with  your 
Maator,  perpetually  preaching  self-denial  and.  Belf-sacrificc.      It  in  ibc 


PANTINE.  81. 

advice  of  a  miser  to  bcgp^ars'.  Self-denial!  Why?  Self  sacrifice,  to 
what?  It  is  nor  recordiul  that  one  wolf  wi'l  sacrifice  himself  for  the 
weal  of  another  wolf.  Let  us,  then,  not  depart  from  nature's  law.i.  We 
are  at  the  summit,  and  let  U8  have  a  higher  philosophy.  What  is  thft 
use  nf  being  in  a  higlur  posiiimi  if  we  can't  sec  further  than  another 
man's  noi-e  ?  Let  us  live  and  be  merry,  for  life  is  all.  That  man -has 
another -life,  elsewhere,  above,  below,  anywhere — I  don't  b'liive  ano 
decL'ivin-^  word  of  it.  So  !  I  am  recommended  to  self-sac rhfiue  and 
renuncation,  I  am  ta  watcdi  each  of  my  ac^ii  ns — to  addle  my  biuina 
with  questions  of  good  and  of  evil,  (.f  justice  and  of  injustice — of  the 
y<f.s  and  the  nefns. — the  lawful  and  the  unlawful.  And  wliy  *  IJccause 
I  shall  he  acrountable  for  all  my  acti<ms  When  ?  After  d;'ath.  Wha^ 
a  fine  dream  !  After  I  am  dead,  it.  will  take  U  sharp  tipstalf  to  nab  me. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  shadow  of  a  fist,  clutehing  a  handful  of  ashcs-f 
Let  us.  who  are  initiated,  nnd  ha.vo  raised  the  skirt  of  Lsis,  s[>eak 
the  truth  ;  there  is  neither  good  nor  evil  ;  there  is  vegetation  only. 
Let  us  seek  fi>r  the  real  ;  lot  us  dig  into' everything.  Let  us  go  to  -<h« 
bottom.  We  should  scent  out  the  truth,  dig  the  earth  for  it,  and  seize 
upon, it.  Then  it  gives  yoa  exquisite  joy;  then  you  grow  sfron-^,  and 
laugh.  I  stand  plumb  and  square  on  my  h-x^a;  bishop,  the  imninrtdity 
of-  nvan  is  a  w.illo'-the  wisp  Oh!  charming  promise  Trust  if  yowl 
will  !  A  fine  allntment  for  A'lam  !  Wo  h  ive  souls,  and  arc  to  bi'cinno 
angfds,  with  blue  wings  stuck  to  our  shoulders!  Tell  me  now,  isn't  it 
Tertullian  who  says  that  the  blessed  vM\  wing  their  way  from  star  to- 
etar?  Woll,  we  shall  be  tho  grasshoppers  of  the  skies.  And  then  we 
sha'l  see  God.  Tut,  tut,  tut.  You*-  joys  of  Paradise  ?  Just  s  >  much 
whipped  .syllabub  I  God  is  a  huge  u)yth.  I  shouMn'fc  say  that  in  the 
Monllcur,  of  course,  but  I  wiiisper  it  am  ng  my  frien<l.i — inter  pfxida^ 
between  two  sips  of  wine.  To  s^icrifico  earth  to  paradise,  is  to  leave  the 
K<ibstance  for  the  shadow.  I  am  not  so  stupid  as  to  be  the  dupe  cvf  the 
Infinite.  Iain— nought;  my  appellJUion  is  Count  Nothing,  ii  siuito*. 
Did  I  exist  before  my  birth?  No.  What  am  I?  A  little  colit-sive, 
organized,  dust.  What  have  I  to  do  on  ^his  earth  ?  I  have  the  choice 
to  suffer  or  to  enjoy.  Where  will  suffering  lead  me?  To  uothingue.^3. 
liut  I  will  h  ive  suffered.  Where  will  enjoyment  lead  me  ?  To  nonen- 
tity. Hut  I  will  liav^  cnjoyfd.  My  choice  is  made.  I  must  be  active 
or  passive,  oiil  or  bo  eaten,  ami  I  choose  to  eat.  It  ia  better  to  be  the 
looth  than  the  grass.  Such  is  my  philosophy.  After  which,  jog  on  as 
destiny  advises  There  is  the  grave-digger— the  pantheon  fu-  v/s— hut 
all  drop  into  (he  great  gulf--the  end;  Jim's— a  general  winding  up  of 
the  coneern.  This  is  the'  vanishing  point,.  Poath  i«  dead,  believe  mo. 
I  laufil^at  the  idea  that  after  that,  there  should  bo  any  one  to  hive  a 
word  to  say  to  inc.  It  is'  a  nursery  talc  :  B^ugriboo  for  children  ;  Jo- 
liovah  for  men  No,  our  morrow  is  night  IJeyoTid  the  tomb  ther« 
only  is  an  equality  of  nothings.  You  have  been  Sardanapalus,  or  y<»o 
have;  be  n  Vincent  do  Paul— that  amounts  to  the  same  nothing.  That 
is  (he  tiuih  of  the  t]jcme.  Let  life,  (hen,  be  our  chief  end  ;  use  your 
individuality  while  you  have  it  under  your  hand.  Indfecd,  I  tell  you, 
bishop,  I  have  my  philo.sophy,  and  I  h^ve  my  philoftopli»rs.  I  do  not 
till-iw  myself  to  be  tioodwiuk-d  by  old  wives'  tale-*.  IJut  it  is  ncce.isary 
1hcrc  should  be  something  for  those  who  arc  below  us,  tho  trauipi-is  and 


32  LES    MFSERABLES. 

tiukciT,  and  other  wretches.  Legends  and  chimeras  are  given  tbeni  .to 
sfwuliow,  8uch  as  the  fouI,  immortality,  paradise,  and  the  stars.  They 
ruminate  over  it;  they  spread  it  on  their  dry  bread.  For  the  indigent 
•f  the  earth,  it  is  .<^omcthiQg  to  lay  claim  to  a  good  God— to  this,  at 
least  arc  they  cntitJed.  [  make  no  objection  to  it,  but  I  keep  Monsieur 
Nai"con  for  luy.^eJf.  Your  good  God  is  good  for  (he  common  people 
alone." 

The  ITishop  clapped  his  bands. 

^'That  is  the  idea,"  he  exclaimed.  "This  materialism  is  an  excellent, 
and  a  truly  marvellous  thTng  !  It  is  no  commoa  privilege,  surely  :  It 
is  but  ."securing  it,  and  man  ceases  to  be  a  dupe;  he  does  not  stupidly 
allow  himself  to  be  exiled  like  Cato^  or  stoned  like  Stephen,  or  burnt 
alive  like  Joan  of  Arc.  Those  who  have  succeeded  in  procuring  this 
admirable  materialism  have  the  happiness  of  feeling  that  they  are  irre- 
pponsiblo,  and  of  thinking  tbat  they  can  devour  everything  in  quiet 
.ease — places,  sinecures,  honors,  power  rightly  or  wrongly  acquiredj 
lucrative  recantations,  thrifty  betrayals  of  trust,  dainty  surrenders  of 
conscience,  and  that  tliey.will  enter  their  graves  free  from  the  copse- 
quances  of  greed.  A  plca-^ing  idea,  surely.  I  do  not  mean  it  for  you, 
Mr.  Sen.itor,  still  I  cannot  keep  from  congratulating  you.  You  great 
lords  have,  you  say,' a  philosophy  of  your  own,  for  your  special  benetit — ■ 
exquisite,  n  lined,  acfcssiblc  to  the  rich  alone;  fit  for  all  occasions. and 
needs,  and  admirably  seasoning  the  pleasures  of  life.  This  philosophy 
is  found  at  great  depths,  and  l^rought  up  by  special  search.  But  yours 
is  a  princely  generosity,  which  is  so  indulgent  as  to  allow  belief  in 
•the  good  God, '.to  be  good  eaou'£h_j)hilosopliy  for  (he  vulgar — much  in 
the  same  way  that  the  goose  stuned  with  chccuuls,  is  the  truffled  turkey 
of  th6  poor." 


• 


IX. 

THE    SISTER   SPCAKS    FOR    THE    BROTHER. 

T<^  afford  an  idea  of  the  household  of  the  Bishop  of  D ,  and  the 

manner  in  which  these  (wo  good  \von\en  fashioned  their  actions,  thoughts, 
even  tht  ir  womanly  in.stinct-;,  so  easily  startled  into  alarm^to  (he  ways 
and  wishes  of  the  bishop,  without  even  his' being  put  to  the  trouble  of 
speakiufi  (hem  out,  we  cannot  do  better  than  to  copy  hero  a  letter 
from  Miss  Baptistine  to  the  Viseountctis  de  BoischevroU,  the  friend  of 
her  cUildhood.     Tliis  letter  is  in  our  possession  : 

D ,  Decemhcr  liSth,  1P8^-. 

"  JIy  dk.ar  Mada.'mf:  Not  a  day  passes  that  we  do  not  speak  of 
you;  that  is  customary  enough  with  us;  bttt  we  have  now  an  additional 
reason.  Would  yon  believe  that  in  washing  and  dusting,  the  ceilings 
and  walls  Mrs.  Magloire  has  made  some  discoveries?  At  present,  our 
two  chamlers,  which  were  hung  with  old  whitewasTied  paper,  would  not 
disparage  a  chateau  in  the  style  of  your  own.  Mrs.  Magloire  has  torn 
off  all  the  paper:  it  had  soniething  underneath..  My  parlor,  where 
there  i«  no  furniture,  and  which  we  use  to  spread  out  the  clothes  after 


FANTINE.  .  33 

passing  them  through  the  lye,  is  fifteen  feet  high,  eighteen  feet  square, 
and  has  a  ceiliog,  once  painted  and  gilded,  with  heiuiis  like  those  of 
your  house.  This  was  covered  over  with  canvas  during  the  time  it  was 
used  as  a  hospital  ;  and  then  we  have  waiuscottiug  of  the  days  of  our 
grand-mothers.  ]5ut  it  is  my  own  room  which  you  ought  to  sec.  Mrs.- 
Magloire  has  discovered  under  at  least  ton  (hictcnef^.scs  of  paper,  some 
, pictures,  which,  though  not  good,  are  quite  erklmable.  One  subject  is 
Tclcm'achus,  admitted  to  knigjithood  by  Minerva;  in  another,  wo  have 
him  again  in  tho.se  gardens,  the  name  of  whidi  I  have  forgotten.*  A 
third  subject  is  the  place  where  the  Roman  lailies  re.'^ortcd  for  a  single 
night.  What  more  shall  I  say  ?  I  have  ]lomans,  mey  *nd  won)en 
[^ficrr.  an  ilftyihle  ;rorrf],  and  all  (he  sequel.  Mrs.  Magloire  has  cleaned 
it  all,  and  this  summer  she  is  going  to  repak  some  little  damages,  var- 
nish the  whole,  and  my  room  will  be  a  perfect  museum.  She  has  also 
found  in  a  corner  of  the  garret  two  pier-tables  of  antique  style ;  they 
charged  two  crowns  of  sis  livres  each  to  regild  them;  but  it  is  far  better 
to  give  that  to  tWe  poor;  besides  that  they  arc  very  ugly,  and  I  much 
prefer  a  round  mahogany  table. 

I  am  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  happiness;  my  brother  is  so  good;  he 
gives  all  he  has  to  the  poor  and  sick.  We  are  (juitJ  cramped  for  means; 
living  here  is  hard  in  the  winter;  and  something  niuft  be  done  for  those 
who  need.  As  for  ourselves,  we  just  make  out  fgr  fuel  and  lights. 
You  will   perceive  that  we  are  blessed  with^reat  con.forts. 

"  My  brother  has  his  peculiarities.  When  he  converses,  he  says  that 
a  bif^hop  ought  to  be  thus.  Just  think  of  it  that  the  door  is  never 
closed.  Come  in  who  will,  he  is  at  once  my%ro(her's  guest;  he  fears 
nothing,  not  even  at  night;   be  says  that  isihis  form  of  bravery. 

"lie  will  not  allow  me  to  fear  for  him-,  nor  yet  (hat  JMrs.  Magloire 
should.      lie  exposes  himself   to  every  danger,   and    prefers   that  we " 
should  not  even  seem  to  be  aware  of  it.     One  must  leara   his  ways  to 
understand  him. 

He  goes  out  in  the  rain,  walks  through  the  water,  travels  in  winter; 
he  has  no  fear  of  darkness  or  dangerous  roads,  or  of  those  he  may 
meet. 

"  Last  year  he  went  all  alone  into  a  district  infested  with  robbers. 
lie  would  not'take  us.  lie  was  gone  a  fortnight.  He  came  back  with- 
out any  mishap.  We  had  thought  that  he  was  dead,  and  he  returned 
in  health.  He  said,  'See  how  i  have  been  robbed  !'  And  he  opened 
a  trunk,  filled  with  jewels  of  the  cathedral  of  Embrun,  which,  the  rob- 
bers bad  given  him.  « 

"Upon  that  occasion,  on  the  return,  I  oould  not  keep  from  scolding 
bira  a  little,  taking  care  only  to  speak  while  the  carriage  made  a  noise, 
so  that  no  one  could  hear  us. 

"  At  first  I  used  to  say  to  myself  he  stops  for  no  danger,  he  is  incor- 
rigible. But  now  I  hiwe  become  used  to  it.  I  make  signs  to  Mrs. 
Magloire  not  to  oppose  him,  whilst  he  runs  what  risks  he  chooses.  I 
call  away  Mrs. 'Magloire;  I  goto  my  room,  pray  for.  him,  and  fall 
asleep.  I  am  resigned,  for  I  feci  full  well,  that,  simuld  any  harm 
happen  to  him,  it  would  be  my  death  :    I  should   go  back   to  the  good 


*  Most  likelj  the  gardens  of  Alciuous.— Ed. 

• 


34  LES    MISKRABLES. 

Fatlier  with  my  brolh<^r  an  1  my  bishop.  Mrs.  M!t<,'l<tiro  has  had  more 
difriculty  in  gctriui  u-<'d  to  wli.it  slie  calls  his  imprudences.  Now  the 
thiii'T  is  settled  :  we  pray  to^rethcr  ;  we  are  aCraid  together,  and  we  go 
to  sleep.  8ii'>ul  I  Safaii  even  come  into  the  house,  no  one  would  inte'i'- 
ferc.  Afier  all,  whit  is  there  to  fear  in  this  hou.se?  There  is  always 
One  with  u-s  who  is  the  strongest,  Satan  may  darken  our  house;  but 
it  stii]  is  tlie  dwelling  of  our  f^ood  G"d  _  "         - 

''That  is  en"uyh  for  me.  iMy  br  ither  has  uo  need  mw  cvsr  to  speak 
a  woid.  I  understand  him  witlio'at  his  spunking,  and  we  pat  ourselves 
in  the  hand  of  Providence. 

"  This  iintjjc  way  to  deal  with  a  raan^  of  such  greatness  of  soul. 
."  I  asked  -my  brother  for  the  information  which  you  requested 
respecting  the  Faux  fuuily.  You  know  hovv  varied  is  his  knowl(?dge, 
and  how  much  he  retneuibers,  for  hn  still  is' a  very  staunch  royalist. 
Well,  thf  n,  they  are  really  a  very  old  Norman  family,  of  the  district  of 
Caen.  There  are  records  for  five  centuries  of  a  Kuoul  do  Faux,  Jean 
de  Faux  and  Ttiomas  do  Faux,  who  were  of  the  geiifty,  one  of  whom 
was  a  lord  of  llochefiirt.  The  -list  was  Guy  Eriennc  Alexandrt>,  who 
was  a  colonel,  an  I  held  some  rank  in  the  light  horse  of  B^iltau3^  His 
daught  r  Marie  Louise  married'  Adiien  Charles  de  Gramont,  son  of 
Duko  Louis  de  Cramout,  a  peer  of  France,  colonel  of  the  French 
Guards,  and  Lieutenant  General  of  the  army.  It  is  written  Faux, 
Fauq,  and  Faouq.  • 

"  Will  you  not,  my  dear  madamo,  ask  for  us  the  prayers  of  yowr 
holy  relative,  the  cardinal.  As  to  your  preciitu^i  Sylvanie,  she  has  done 
well  not  to  waste  the  sh off  trine  that  she  is  with  you  in  writing  to  me. 
She  is  well,  you  say  ;  studies  according  to  your  wishes,  and  loves  me 
still.  That  is  .all  I  could  desire.  Her  remembrance,  through  you, 
reached  mc,  an(l  I  was  g'ad  to  receive  it.  !My  health  is  tolerably  good; 
still  I  grow  thinner  every  day. 

"Farewell:  my  paper  is  filled  and  1  must  stop.'  With  a  thousand 
good  wishes, 

"  Bai'ti.stine. 

"  1*.  S. — Your  little  nephew  is  charming;  do  you  romeiuber  that  he 
will  soon  bo  five  years  old?  He  saw  a  horse  pass  yesterday  on  which 
they  had  put  kuee-eap-i,  and  lie  cried  out:  '  Whal  is'that  he  has  got  on 
his  knees 'r"  The  child  is  so  pretty.  His  little  brother  drags  an  old 
broom  about  the  room  for  u  carriage,  aud  sa^s,  hi  I" 
•  ■  '  * 

As  this  letter  sliow.s,  these  two  women  know  how  to  conform  to  the 
bishop's  mode  of  life,  with  that  womau's  tact  which  understands  maa 
better  than  he  can  conipreheiKl  himself.  The  Bishop  of  D — — ,  Cvv  all 
the  unalteiably  gentle  and  frank  niaiiiier  which  characterized  hiin,  some- 
times performed  gieat  daring  aTid  even  splendid  acts-,  without  the  appear- 
ance of  their  consciousness.  Tne  women  looked  on  in  awe,  but  did  not 
interfere  Mrs.  Magloire  might  sometimes  venture  on  a  warning  remon- 
strance;  but  never  during,  or  after,  his  exertions  of "  authority'.  No 
one  ever  disturbed  him  by  word  or  token  in  an  action  once  begun.  At 
certain  times,  without  any  necessity  for  his  impressing  the  fact,  when, 
perhaps,  ho  himself  wai5  hardly  conscious  of  it,  so  complete  was  his 
simplicity  of  manner^  they  intuitively  felt   that  be  was  acting  as  th6 


FANTINE. 


Sb 


tisliop  ;  and  at  such  times  they  were  but  two  shadows  lUKtcr  th«t  roof. 
Tliey  waited  on  iiim  paRsivcIy,  and  if  to  obey  wjft  to  disapiicar,  tliey 
disappcHrtd.  With  an  admirable  destiny  5f  instinct,  thC-y  felt  that  cer- 
tain solicitous  attentinns  mijiht  prove  irks  nie  to  liim ;  ho  even  wlien 
tliey  dcftiiiM]  bin)  cxpufied  to  danger,  they  read,  I  do^notsay  bis  tlioujibtH, 
but  his  wbdie  uatme  to  such  a  point  as  to  cease  watching  over  him. 
They  bft  him  unie  crvidly  in  the  bauds  "of  Gi>d. 

Besides,  liaptistinc  bad  said,  as  we   have   seen,  that  bis  death  would 
be  hers,     Mrs.  M«igloiro  did  not  say  so;  but  she  know  it.  • 


X. 

THE   BISHOP    IK   THE    1>KKSENCE    OF     AN    UNKNOWN    LIGHT. 

A  little  wbilc  before  tlie  date  of  the  letter  quoted  in  the  preceding 
pages,  (be  bishop  peiformed  an  atit,  which,  in  the  universal  ju(igiiient  of 
the  town,  was  far  more  venturesome  than  his  excursion  across  the  moun- 
tains inftsted  by  the  batidits. 

In    the   couiUry    near    I) ,    there    was  a    tliao    who   liv^irl    alono. 

1'bis  man,  to  sp.  ak  it  out  bluntly,  bad  been  a  menrbor  of  fbc  National 
CViuvention.      His  name  was  G—. — . 

The  little  circle  of  D spoke  of  the  convt  ntionor  wilb  a  certain 

sort  of  honor.  A  ctaivcntioner  ;  it  belonged^  to  the  days  when  folks 
tbec'and-thoued  one  luiother,  and  said  ''citizen."  This  man  came  very 
near  being  a  monster.  True,  that  he  bad  not  voted  the  death  of  the 
King  ;  but  he  bad  conuj  very  near  it.  He  was  a  quasi-regicide,  and  had 
altogether  been  teiliblo.  Ilow  camo  it  tlun  fhit, on  the  return  of  tho 
legitimate  sovereign,  this  ujan  bad  not  been  biuught  before  a  military 
court?  rie  might  not,  perhaps,  have  forfeited  his  bead  ;  there  is  p(dicy 
in  clcmency,'no  doubt.  iJut  a  lifelong  exile  would  have  been  no  unfit 
doom.  Irj  fact,  something  by  way  of  example,  &c.,  &c.  JJesides,  like 
all  of  bis  stamp,  be  was  au  atheist.  The  gablplo  of  geese  over  the 
liereencss  of  the  vulture  ! 

liut  was  this  G a   vulture?     Yes,  if  one  .shou'd  judge   him   by 

(he  savagencss  of  bis  solitude.  As  be  had  not  voted  for  the  king's  exc- 
cuti'in,  be  was  nut  lucluded  in  the  sentence  of  exile,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  remain  in  •France. 

He  lived  about  an  hour's  walk  from  the  town,  far  from  any  hamlet  or 
road,  in  the  secluded  Imllow  of  a  veiy  wild  ravine.  It  was  said  he  had 
there  a  sort  of  patch  of  ground,  a  bole,  a  den  He  bad  no  neighbors; 
there  was  not  even  an  occasu)nal  w^iyfarcr.  Since  he  bad  lived  tin  re, 
the  p^b  which  led  to  the  place  had  become  overgrown,  and  people  spoke 
of  it  as  the  Imuse  of  (he  public  executioner. 

And  yet  the  bishop  would  think,  and  from  time  to- time,  looking 
abing  the  btuizon  on  the  spot  where  a  cltimp  of  trees  defined  the  ImMow 
of  the  oM  convetitiontr,  be  would  say  :  "  There  breathes  a  soul  that 
lives  alone" — and  within  himself  wvu'd  add,   "  I  owe  biiu  a  visit." 

]}ut  this  idea,  we  must  confess,  thc^gli  it;  appeared  natural  at  first, 
yet,  after  a  few  .moment's  reflection,  seemed  to  him  impracticable,  and 
almotil  repulsive.     Fot  at  heart  he  shared-  iu  the  general  impression, 


% 


LES    MISERABLES. 


and  the  coriventtorrcr  inspired  him,  be  knew  not  wlij,  with  that  senti- 
ment which  borJcr^on  hatred,  and  which  the  word  "aversion"  so  well 
expresses. 

Should,  however,  the  mange  of  the  sheep  drive  the  shepherd  away? 
Yet,  what  a  sheep  vjas  that ! 

The  good  bishnp  was  perplexed.  He  would  sometimes  walk  in  that 
direction,  and  then  turn  back. 

At  last,  it  was  one  day  bruited' about  town  that  a  sort  of  a  hcrdsboy, 
who  teirded  the  conveotioncr,  in  his  lair,  had  come* for  a  doctor;  that 
the  old  wretch  was  dyinjj; — that  he  wUs  already  palsied,  and  could  n|^ 
live  tlirnu^houf  the  night.      "Thank  God  I"   some  would  add. 

The  bishep  took  his  cafie,  put  on  hi.^  ov.ercoat,  because  his  cassock  was 
badly  worn,  as  we  have  said,  and  be&ides  the  night  wijid  was  evidently 
rising,  and  set  out. 

The  sun  was  slanting,  and  all  but  touched  the  horizon,  when  tlie 
bi.shop  reached  the  accursed  spot..  Pie  felt  a  certain  quickening  of  the 
pulse,  which  told  him  that  he  had  reached  the  den.  He  jumped  over 
a  ditch,  cleared  a  hedge,  made  his  way  through  a  brush  fence,  found 
himself  in  a  dilapidated  garden,  and  after  a  bold  advance  across  the 
open  ground,  suddenly,  behind,  some  high  brushwood,  he  discovered  the 
retreat.        ** 

It  was  a  low,_poverty-strickcn  hut,  small  and  cleaa,  with  a  little  vine 
narled  up  in  fiout. 

Before  the  door,  in  an  old  chair  on  rollers,  there  sat  a  white-haired 
inan,  smiling  on  t|ie  setting  sun. 

Near  the  old  man  stood  the  herd.sb)y,  handing  him  a  bowl  of  milk. 

While  the  bishop  was  looking  on,  the  old  niau  raised  his  voice. 

"Thank  you,"  he  sad,'  ".I  need  notliing  more;"  and  his  smile 
passed  from  the  sun  to  rest  upon  the  boy. 

The  bishop  stepped  forward.  At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  the  old 
man  turned  his  head,  and  his  face  expressed  all  of  the  surprise  that  may 
be  left  a  man  after  the  course  of  a  long  life. 

"This  is  the  ffist  time  since  I  have  lired  here,"  said  he,  that  I  have 
Lad  a  visitor."    Who  are  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  IJienvenu— Myriel,"   the  bishop  replied. 

"IJienvenu — Myriel  ?  I  have  heard  that  name  before.  Arc  yoa 
be  whom  the  people  call  My  Lord  Bicnveou  ?" 

"lam."     • 

TKe  old  man  continued  half  smiling.     "  Then  you  are  my  bishop." 

"  Somewhat  so." 

"  C^ome  in,  sir." 

The  eonventioucr  held  out  his  hand  to  the  bishop,  "but  he  did  not 
take  it.     lie  only  said  :  • 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  that  I  have  been  mis-informed.  You  certainly  do 
not  seem  to  mc  to  be,  ill." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  old  man,*"  I  am  about  to  get  well." 
He  paused  and  .said  :  .•  ' 

"  I  shall  be  dead  in  three  hoMrs. 
Then  he  cuniinued  :  * 

"I  am  something  of  a  physician;  T  know  the  gradual  approaches  of 
the  last  hour.     Yesterday  my  feet  only  were  cold ;    to-day  the  cold  has 


FANTINE.  .        ■  37 

readied  ray  knees ;  it  is  now  creeping  up  to  my  waisl ; '  when  it  will 
have  touched  the  hearfj  my  race  will  be  up.  It  is  a  btautifu!  sunset,  is 
if  not?  I  have  had  myself  wheeled  out  to  take  a  farewell  look  of  earth. 
You  can  speak  to  me;  it  will  not  tire  me.  It  was  welhiii  you  to  come 
and  look  on  a  dying  man.  It  is  good  that  there  should  be  witnesses  of 
that  supreme  hour.  .4  K very  one  has  his  yrhims.  I  should  like  to  have 
lasted  until  dawn  ;  but  I  kuow,that  the  sands  of  life  will  scarcely  run 
throe  hours  longer.  It  will  be  night;  but  what  of  tliat?  Tiiis  settling 
i;p  is  a  very  simple  thing.     Be  it  so  :  I  shall  die  ;n  the  starlight." 

The  old  man  turned  towards  the  herd.sboy  : 

"Little  one,  go  to  bed:  thou  didst  watch  last  night;  thou  art 
weary."  • 

.The  child  went  into  the  hut. 

The  old  man  folK)Wod  him  with  his  eyes,  and  added,  as  if  speaking  to 
himself:  "While  he  is  sleeping,  I  shall  die:  the  t>vo  slumbers  can 
keep  fit  company." 

The  bi.sliop  was  not  as  much  affected  as  he  might  h^ve  been  :  it  seems  iu 
.such  a  death  he»<aw  nothing  of  the  spirit  of-God;  and  to  speak  out 
fully — for  the  little  inconsistencies  of  great  souls  mfi&.t  also  be  pointed 
out,  he  who  laughed  so  readily  at  "  His  Highness,'^  was  somewhat 
clVended  at  not  being  addressed  as  "My  Lord,"  and  was  almost  tempted 
to  reply  to  (he  man  by  the  word  "citizen."  There  passed  across  his 
mind  a  gleam  of  a  desire  to  apply  to  the  man  the  churlish  familiarity, 
common  enough  with  bishops  and  priests,  but  which  was  not  habitual  in 
his  converse. 

This  convcntioncr  .after  all,  this  representative  of  the  people,  had 
been  one  of  the  powers  of  earth — he  had  sat  on  the  destinies  of  kings, 
hence,  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  bishop  feit  inclined  to  be 
severe.  The  conventii.ner,  however,  treated  him  with  a  modest  consid- 
eration and  cordiality,  in  which  perhaps  niig^lf  have  been  discerned  that 
humility  which  is  befitting  to  one  who  w.-js  so  near  passing  into  dust. 

The  bishop,  on  his  part,  although  he  generally  kept  himself  free 
from  curiosity,  which  to  his  mind  was  the  next  door  neighbor  to  offence^ 
could  not  avoid  examining  the  conventioner,  with  a  steadiness,  which, 
vnliuked  with  any  sympathy,  his  conscience  might  well  have  rebuked, 
had  he  thus  acted  toward  any  other  man.  A  conventioner  however, 
he  looked  upon  something  in  the  light  of  an  outlaw — even  out  of  the 
pale  of  the  law  of  charity. 

{Jilting   sclf-po.sses3edj   with   his   bust   erect,  and   his   ringing   voice, 

G was  one  of  those  high-statued  oetogeoarians,  to  whom  physiolo- 

£;,ists  look  up  in  wonderment.  The  revolution  had  produced  many  men 
tli\is  proportioned  to  their  day  of  deed.  In  the  person  of  the  conven- 
tioner was  revealed  at  once  the  "man  of  proof"  Though  so  near 
death,  he  preserved  all  the  gestures  of  health.  There  was,  in  the  keen 
flash  of  the  eye,  in  the  firm  tones  of  the  voice,  in  the  sudden  turn  of 
the  shoulders,  vitality  enough  to  bewilder  Death  it.self.  Azrael,  tlic 
Mahouictai^  messenger  of  the  grave,  would,  have  turned  b»ck,  thinking 

he  had  mistaken  Ill's  errand.     G-^ appeircd  to  bo   dying  because   he 

wi.slied  to  die.  There  was  an  exercise  of  free  will  in  his  agony;  his 
legs  only  were  paralyzed;  his  feet  were  cold  and  ddad  Ibut  his  head 
lived  with   the  fulness  of  life,  and  seemed   bathed  in   light.     At  this 


33  LES    MlsfiaABLBS. 

B.ilcmn    iiudiipnt   0 wms  like  the   king   in   the  oriental  talc,  flesh 

above  :intl  iiiuible  htl'>w.     'I'ho  bishop  seated   hin^solf  upon  a  stone  near 
by-     The  bc'i:iiiiiiii;r  if  their  conversation  was  >>x  ahmptn : 

"  I  cungraiulnto  jtiu,"  lie  e;iiJ,  in  that  tone  whioh  roboke  is  convoyed. 
■••At  any  rale  jou  »li-l  Jiol  vote  for  the.  rxi  cution  of  the  Uiiiir" 

The  c.>nvcniionir  di'l  n>)t  ^cem  to  Qolico  the  lurl^ing  bittgrness  of  the 
words  "  at  ;.ny  rule."  The  Siuiio  hud  «gono  frouj  his  faco  and  ho  re- 
plied : 

"Do  Milt  conpratulatp  lue  too  much,  sir;  I  did  vole  for  the  destruc- 
tion iif  the  tyrant." 

And  the  tone  «tf  austerity  conrrmfod  fho  tone  of  Bcvcrily. 

"  Wliat  d  •  you  ni 'an  ?"  asked  the  bishop.* 

"  1  mean  tint  mm  ha^i  a  tyrant,  Ij^uurauoe.  I  voted  for  fho  d'wnfall 
of  that  tyrant  That  tyrant  has  begotten  royalty,  whieli  is  authority 
derived  fioui  Falsehood  ;  while  Knowledge  is  power  derived  from  Truth  j 
Knowledge  only  hhoiild  <:overn  man." 

"  What  of  conscience?"  added  the  bishop. 

"It  is  till'  same  thing;  conseienjc  is  the  sum  of  injiatc  knowledge, 
lurking  within  u.s  "• 

Tlie  b^hnp  lir4.'ncd  with  sotno  axazemcnt  to  this  language,  novel  aa 
it  was  to  hiui.  * 

The  eonveiitioner  went  on  : 

"  As  to  Louis  XVI.  :  1  Hai<l  No.  I  do  not  believe  that  T  have  the 
right  to  kill  H  man,  but  I  feid  it  a  duty  to  extcrn»inate  evil  1  voted  for 
the  aiiiiilii  ution  of  the  tyrant  ;  tli.it  is  to  f?ay,  for  the  abolition  of  jiro.s- 
tiiuiiuii  for  woman,  of  d-'generacy  for  man,  and  of  night  for  liie  child. 
lu.v(rtiiig  for  the  repnhlie  I  voted  for  that:  I  voted  for  fraternity,  for 
haiiiiony,  for  light.  I  assi>ted  in  rooting  out  prejudices  and  errors: 
their  dovVn'al!,  like  the  .sweep  of  the  liglitning's  light.  We,  of  those 
days,  toppled  down  thy  tXd  world  ;  and  the  ohl  world,  a  va.sc  of 
wretchedness,  outpoured  upon  inankiiid,  has  been  eouvcrted  into  an  urn 
of  joys  " 

•♦  Ohetpurod  joys,"  h\'u\  the  bishop. 

"  ^  ou  might  Hay  troublous  joy.-;*;  and  now,  since  this  fatal  reinstate- 
ment of  the  past,  which  is  ealle<l  1814, — joys  that  have  laded  away. 
Alah  !  the  work  was  but  h:df  done,  1  admit.  We  demolished  the  an- 
cient system  in  the  order  of  facts;  but  wo  could  nOt  wholly  blot  it  out 
in  the  <irder  of  idtas  Tlio  eradication  of  Bocial  abuses  is  not  enough; 
there  uiu«t  be  n  reformation  of  the  moral  world.  The  mill  has  gone 
d  'wn  ;   but  the  winds  are  blowing  yet." 

"  Voii  have  demoli-heil.  It  may  have  been  a  useful  work;  but  T  sus- 
pect a  deiiiolitioi),  su.'gi'sted  by  hateful  pa.ssious." 

'*  Kights  have  their  anger,  Mr.  Hishoj)  ;  and  the  r.nger  of  Ri.:ht  is  an 
element  of  juogress.  It  matters  not  what  may  be  «aiU.  The  French 
llevolwtion  is  the  most  gigaiitic  striilc  of  mtinkiud  ninco  the  advent  of 
Chiist.  Incomplete — I  grant  you;  but  Kublime-  yoa  may  not  deny. 
It  his  eliminated  all  the  unknown  (juantilies  in  the  Algebra  of  Society 
—  softened  human  passions — allayed,  '  pacified  and"  enligliteneil  — and^ 
pounil  eiviliziiiioij  in  streani.s  over  the  earili.  It  was  a  good  work. 
The  French  Uevtifttti  m  is  the  (Coronation  of  Humanity  " 

The  bibhop  could  not  but  uiutfer  :  "  Whut  I     The  year  'i>3  V 


.     FANTINE.  '  39. 

"Ah!  tliorc  you  are.  Ninof3--throe  !  I  was  prepared  for  this.  A 
cloud  had  been  teeming  for  fif  oen  centuries,  at  the  end  of  those  ceutii- 
rios  it  burst.      You  are  indictiiifjc  the  lijihtniiig  " 

Without  acknowh  ding  it,  perhaps,  to  biii)«i  If,  the  bishop  folt  tliat  the 
thrust  had  tidd.      Yet  he  b(ire  it  out  and  said  : 

"  A  judge  ."speaks  in  the  nnino  of  jusliie  ;  the  priest  speaks  in  the  name 
of  pity,  which  is  but  a  higher  form  of  jLt^tiee.  A  thuuderb(dt  should 
not  strike  ami-s" — then  he  added,  gazing  steadily  at  the  couventiouer — 
"Louis  the  XVIIth?" 

The  conv.eutioner  reiiched  outliis  hand  and  took  the  bishop's  arm. 

"Louis  the  XVIIth!"  Come,  tlien.  ^For  whom  are  your  fears? 
Are  they  for  the  innocent  child?  Be  it  so;  UiUic  will  blend  with 
yours.  Are  they  for  the  royal  i'ffspring?  Tliis  reriuin  s  thoUj^ht.  To 
my  mind  Cartoiiche's  brother,  hanged  at  the  GrCive  by  the  armpits  until 
he  died  for  the  bare  guilt  of  liis  brothershjp,  touches  me  no  less  deeply 
than  the  grandson  of  Louis  the  XVth,  an  innntcnt  child,  tortured 
into  martyrdom,  in  the  temple  tower,  for  no' other  crime  than  that  of  his 
(iescont.."  « 

"  Sir,  said  the  bishop,  "  T  dislike  t'le  coupling  of  these  names." 

"Cartouche?  Louis  the  X\'Iltl)  ?  In  behalf  of  whieh  do  y%lii  protest  ?" 

An  interval  of  silence  ensued  The  bishop  ahnost  regretted  his  call; 
aud  yet  he  felt  vaguely  and  strangely  affected. 

The  conveniioner  resumed  : 

"  So,  Mr.  Priest,  you  di^ike  the  n;.kednoss  of  truth  ?  Christ  loved 
it.  With  rod  in  hand,  he  once  dostcd  the  temple.  The  lash  of  his 
scourge  waf?  a  stern  dispenser  of  truth.  When  he  spol*  his  shiile  par- 
vulos — 'let  iitiie  chihiren  come  unto  nio,'  he  niaile  no  discriminalion 
among  them.  lie  would  not  have  scrupled  to  couple  tlic  dauphin  of 
Barabbas  with  the  dauphin  of  Herod.  The  best  crown  of  innocence,  sir, 
is  innocence  itself  Innocence  has  no  need  to  be  a  '  Highness.'  It 
stands  as  comman'ding,  clut!ied  in  rags,  as  bodigtitcl  with  the  flcur- 
delis."  _  •         _ 

"That's  true,"  said  the  bishop,  with  a  subdued  voice 

"1^0  further,"  continued  the  conventi(»nci*;..^Yiy""'  mentioned 
Jiouis  the  XVIIth,  to  me.  Arc  we  called  to  weep  ov»,-.''i'ie  fate  of  all 
the  innocents,  of  all  the  martyrs,  of  all  the  children;  those  of  the  high 
in  station  as  well  as  those  of  the  l.nvly  in  life?  I  am  with  you.  Bat 
then,  a«  I  have  said  to  yon,  we  must  go  farther  back  than  '0;';  and 
strike  the  founlaiu  of  tears  before  the  days  of  Louis  the  XVIIth.  I 
will  weep  with  you  over  the  offspring  of  kings,  if  you  will  weep  with 
me  over  tliC  whclp.s  of  the  people." 

"  .^Iy  te  MS  belong  to  all,"  said  the  bishop 

"  E«|uaUy  !"  exclainred  G  — "and  if  the  bean)  be  swayed  at  all,  let  it 
be  on  the  ^ide  of  the  peojdc.  Their's  has  b6en  the  longer  lot  of  suf- 
fering." • 

Again  silence  ensued  ;  and  asain  the  conventioner  broke  in  upon  it. 
Jlai.ing  hiui^elf  on  one  of  his  clbow«,  as  a  prop,  and  iMlding  a  porli<tu 
of  his  cheek  beiwi-en  his  thumb  and  his  curvcii  Ttc  6ng<r,  as  some  men 
mechanically  do,  when  propounding  que.'-tions  and  weiglnng  answers,  he 
addrcssod-thc  bisiiop  with  a  !•  ok  full  of  the  energies  ol  agony.  It  camo 
almost  like  the  explosion  of  a  curse  : 


40  LES    MISKRABLES. 

• 

"  Yes,  sir,  lon;^  h.is  .eufTcriu;;  been  the  doom  of  the  people.  Ami 
then,  thjit'p  not  all  of  if,  thnt  you  hliould  come  here  questioning  mc  and 
talking  to  me  ahuut  Lntiis  the  XVIUh.  I  do  not  know  you,  sir.  Since 
I  came  to  these  p;trt,s  I  have  lived  in  thi.s  reces.s  alone,  never  stepping 
out,  seeing  no  one  execpt  this  hoy  who  helps  me  in  my  wants.  Your 
name,  it  is  true,  has  confu.sedly  reached  my  ears  ;  and,  I  am  bound  (o 
say,  with  no  evil  ultoraiice ;  but  that  does  not  imply  much;  cunning 
men  have  so  many  ways  of  imposini:  on  those  good  souls,  the  common 
people.  IJy  (he  liy,  I  did  dot  hoar  the  i;pll  of  your  carriage;  you  have, 
no  doubt,  left  it  behind  the  thicket — out  there  at  the  forks  of  tiic  roaid  ? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  do  not  know  j-ou.  Y'ou  have  told  mc  that  you  are 
a  bishop;  but  that  throws  no  light  on  ^-our  moral  individuiility.  In 
one  question,  I  repeat:  wlio  arc  j'ou  ?  You  are  a  bi.shop ;  that  is,  a 
prince  of  the  cluircli — one  of   those  gilded,  arms-bearing  and   rent-fed 

gentlemen  \\ho  enjoy  fat  prebend.': — the  bithop  of  ]) ,  with  a  fixed 

salary  of  fiftorn  ihousaud  francs,  with  pcr(|uisites,  ten  thousand  francs 
additional  —  total,  twenty-five  thousand;  who  have  kitchen  ranges,  liv- 
eried servant^,  faro  sumjHuously,  eat  coots  of  Fridays,  go  in  state, 
lackeys  in  front  and  lackeys  behind,  in  their  gala-day  landaw.s,  own 
palacfs 'andnfide  in  carriages  in.  the  name  of  their  jMaster,  who  .went 
bare  footed  through  life.  You  are  a  prelate^  revenues,  palace,  horses, 
servants,  a  rich  board  and  all  the  sensualities  of  .life,  you  enjoy  in  com- 
mon, with  the  others  of  your  class.  This  is  well;  but  it  means  too 
much  or  too  little.  It  throws  no  light  on  the  worth,  essential  and  in- 
triu.>>ic,  of  one  who  comes  to  mc  with  tbc  probable  pretension  of  reading 
me  lectures  on  vwsdoju.     To  whoni  am  I  speaking!'     Who  arc  you?" 

The  bishop  bowed  his  head  and  answered  :   "  Vermis  sum." 

"An  earth-worm,  and  in  a  carriage!"  grumbled  the  convcntioner. 
Now'ljad  the  right  of  haughtiness  come  round  to  him;  to  the  bishop, 
the  duty  of  humility. 

"  ]iv  it  so,  sir,"  said  the  brshop  mildly;  "but  will'you  explain  to  me 
in  what  way  my  carriage,  wliich  is  two  steps  behind  tlie  trees;  in  what 
way  my  rich  b j.ird  and  llie  water-hens,  whieh  I  eat  of  Fridays;  in  what 
way,  my  income /y»tT\'cnty-five  thousand  francs  a  year;  and  in  what,  " 
my  palace  and-  <^iackey.'<,  go  to  .prove  tliat  pity  is  not  a  virtue,  mercy 
not  u  duty,  and  that  '93  was  not  inexorable  i'" 

«T)ie  convcntioner  passed  his  hand  acro.ss  his  forehead,  as  if  tp  drive 
uvfuy  a  cloud. 

,  "  Krc  I  answer,"  said  he,  "  I  beg  your  forgiveness.  Sir,  a  moment 
ago  I  was  in  the  wrong.  You  arc  under  my  roof,  and  are  my  guest. 
You  arc  entitled  to  my  courtesy.  You  were  discussing  my  ideas  of 
things;  it  id  fit  tliat  I  sliould  confine  njyself  to  conti:overting  your  argu-, 
ment.s.  Your  wealth  and  your  luxuries  put  nic'on  the  vantage-ground 
ill  this  debate  with  you;  b\it  it  is  in  good  ta^te  not  to  avail  myself  of 
the  advantage ;   I^promisc  you,  therefore,  not  to  use  it  again." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  bishop,  and  the  convcntioner  re- 
sumed : 

"  i^et  us  return  to  the  explanation  whioh  you  have  sought  from  mc. 
What  point  had  we  reached';'  What  were  you  saying?  That  '93  had 
bccu. inexorable  ?"  ' 


FANTINE.  41 

"  YesL,  inexorable,"  sa'nl  (lie  bishop.  "What  do  you  think  of  Marat 
applauding  the  guillotine  at  work?" 

"  \Vh4,t  do  }'uu,  of  TJossuct  singing  the  Te  Dcum  over  the  slaughter 
of  the  (//(tijon  7i(i(/(s  !  '* 

The  retort  was  a  liarsh  one;  but  it  reached  its  aim  with  tiie  kfcnnesa 
oif  the  dagger's  point.  The  bishop  shrank  before  it;  no  reply  rose  to 
his  lips;  but  he  felt  wounded  by  sueh  »  lyontiou  of  Bossuet'.s  name. 
The  best  of  niinda  have  their  idnl  worship  and  are  sometime!*  sliocked 
by  the  little  do  fere  nee  that  I.igie  pays  thorn. 

The  convontioner  had  beguu  to  pant,  in  his  .«;pceeh.     The  shortening 
heaves  of  agony,  blending  with  the   hist  breathings  of  life,  broke  his  ut- 
terance; and  yet  his  was  still  a  jierfect  clearness  of  vision  and  of  mind. 
.  He  continued  thus? 

"L<*us  add  a  fcvr  words  licre  and  there — T  am  agreed.  Inde- 
pendently of  the  Kevolution  which,  takun  as  a  whole,  is  an  iinmenae 
assertion  of  human  power,  '93,  alas  I  was  a  republic.  This  you 
adjudge  to  liave  been  inexorable;  but  what  of  the  wlinle  of  your 
monarchy?  Carrier  is  a  blood-dritiker;  but  what  wouhl  you  call 
Montrevel  ?  Fouquier-Fainville  is  a  scoundrel;  but  wliatis  your 
judgment  of  Lanioignon-15;tvilje  ?  3Iaillard  is  frightful;  but  Saulx- 
Tavanu'.s,  what  of  him,  wiir  you  .  please  to  tell  me?  P6re  Duchene  ia 
ferocious;  but  what  epithet  will  you  help  me  to  for  Father  Letellier? 
Jourdan,  the  hcad-cho'j»per,  is  monstrous;  but  nothing  like  the  Marquis 
of  Louvois.  Sir,  sir,  I  piiy  Marie-Antoinette,  arch-duchess  and  queen; 
but  I  pity  the  poor  Ilumienot  w<iman  also,  who,  in  tlie  year  1685,  un^er* 
Louis  the  Great,  sir,  whdst  1=.uekling  her  child,  was  bound  to  a  post, 
stripped  to  her  waist,  and  hetehild  held  off  at  a  distance.  Her  breast 
was  fiwillirig  with  milk,  and  her  heart  with  anguish.  The  nursling, 
pale  und  faiujsliiug,  full  in  sight  of  the  soui'ces  of  life,  was  shrii  king  in 
agony  ;  and  to  her,  a  woman  and  a  nursing  mother,  the  executiotier  cried 
out:  'Recant,'  petting  her  choijc  on  the  death  of  her  babe  or  the  death 
of  her  conscience.  What  *^iy  you  to  tjiis  torture  of  Tantalus  adapted 
to  a  motlicr  ?  Bear  this  in  uiind,  sir:  — the  French  Revidution  had 
warranty  for  its  acts.  Posteiity  will  acquit  it  of  its  wrath  ;  Wi  i  e  it  has 
resulted  in  a  better  world.  In  each  of  its  must  terrible  blows,  there  lurked 
some  fondness  for  the  human  family  I  refrain,  and  must  close.  My 
cau.'^e  i.s  too  just;  and,  besides,  T  am  dying." 

Ceasing  to  look  at  the  bishop,  the  conventioncr  rounded  off  his  idea 
in  these  few  quiet  words  : 

I  *'  Yes,  the  brutal  commolioiw  of^proaress  are  called  revolutions. 
When  they  reach  their  close,  hl{i.stje>rto  fact  is  admitted  :  that  nuinkind 
hav-e  been^violently  shaken  ;   but  tliat,  withal,  they  have  advanced  " 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  convent ioner  that,  one  after  the  other,  he  had 
just-darried  all  the  inner  entrenchments  of  the  bishop.  There  wa-<  one, 
however,  still  atanding,  and  from   this,  the  last  bulwark  of  My   Lord 

*  An  fttUision  to  the  l>Ioorlj  trork  o^  Lonvois'  force?,  pent  into  the  Cevonnes 
Mountain-',  n^Miiisl  JpHn  Oaicalier;  who.  with  liis  Ciinii.^arils — fliiiK  c«l.fi|  from 
.fhe  wli't*.!  frocks  ihnt  they  wore — was  livuling  tlic  fiinuiicAl  cxct'HH*-^  which,  in 
Oerinany.  h:i<l  mrtikcd  the  career  of  John  l.ejdi'D,  of  Thomas  of  MuniiiT  and 
Ibrir  followers.  —  [l!^i>  ] 

4 


42  LES    MISEKABI.B3. 

Iticiivenu'ii  rcri«tan?c,  came  Tirtli   tliesc  woi  J.'*,  htampcJ  with  nearly  all 
Ibc  Kiedi-iCM  of  I  In:  cxuniiijiii  : 

••  I'r..gri5)<  ii  huM  to  buli»:ve  In  God  Goi-doess  cnnoo'  be  sub  ervfd 
by  iiiipioy;  aii<l  the  uilit'i.->l  is  mi  evil  Icnior  uF  inunkiixl  " 

N«»  tiii'Wcr  Icll  from  the  nhl  rfjiie.'^fMHative  of  tliu  people.  A  tr  uior 
cam  •  over  liim  Ho  hmkoJ  up  to  Hoavcn,  and  a  trsir  >l'>wly  j£ii«lu-rt'<l 
ill  hi-  eye.  Si»cllin;5  fr  »ni  il«  lid,  it  couisod  down  hi-t  livid  cli'M-k,  imd 
bIuio"!  ill  a  8taiiinur,  liilkiiig  low  and  to  liimsflf,  wiili  hid  i-yu  rjpl  in  ibti 
Upp"  r  di'p'h.>,  111*  .-ai'l  : 

•'  I),   I  lion  !  O,  Uie  Ideal  !  Thou  only  hast  cxiftcnci^ !" 

TIm?  lii.^liMp  I'Xpeiioncid  u  sort  of  unutiL-iablc  eniulion. 

Af:or  a  nioiiicui's  aileucc,  llio  old  man  pointid  u.  finjitr  to  the  pkics, 
and  s.iid  :  • 

•'The  Infinite  exists.  It  is  there.  If  the  Infinite  h.id  u^  /  of  its 
own,  llii«i  /  III"  mine  wuuM  bo  its  limil.;  He,  thfrcfore,  would  not  bo  In- 
finite; in  oiher  word.s,  Ho  would  not  cxi-t.  He,  therLfore,  his  an  /  of 
his  i-wn.     That  /<f  the  Intiiiilo  i.s  Go  I." 

Tlie  dying  luan  had  utlire  1  these  last  wgrds  in  a  h  ud  voice  iind  with 
the  hliivcring-i  of  ecstacy,  as  if  he  Siiw  xMue  one  Afiir  ppiMking.  he 
clo^ed  liis  cyi'.-i.  lie  li:id  been  exhau.^lol  in  the  LlTort  It  was  tvolent 
th.it,  in  one  ininuie,  he  hacj  liv«-d.  ont  hi.s  few  reniiiinini;  Iuiims.  What 
he  hid  juMl  ^uid  h:id  brnught  liim  nearer  to  iiiin,  who  i.s  in  d<  ath.  The 
IsHi  liuiir  Wis  on  the  wing.  The  bi>hop  pi-rccivfid  it  j  time  w  i.s  presa- 
ing  lie  had  come  hh  a  pric^^t  ;  fiom  i-xireine  coldiie.<8,  he  had  gnolu- 
a%  niched  into  extreme  emutioii.s.  lie  gazoil  on  the  elo.sed  ey*  s ;  he 
took  tliu  (lid,  wiintiled  and  icy  liaiid,  and  ^Miied  over  the  d^ing  iiiun  : 

"Thi^  hour  is  (j'ud'.i.  Do  you  n  it  thiuk  that  it  were  cau>e  fjr  deep 
regret,  should  we  have  met  in  vain  '/  " 

Tiie  eoiivi  nti  <ner  opened  hi.s  i^jes  once  more.  A  shadowy  gravity 
BetiK-d  on  his  counien  nice 

*'  .Mr.  Ui-hop,"  Slid  he,  with  a  delibenUencPS  which  .'sprang,  perliapi), 
even  nior<-  from  u  ilignity  of  soyl  ih.m  froii^tlie  exliaii>ii<.n.s  of  .-ireiigib, 
*' ill  iiiediiatriti,  8tudy  und  oo'item|dation  hits  my  lite  bo'ii  speiU-  1  ^vu8 
BlJCty  )iMiH  of  age  \vlii-n  iny  coiinlry  called  me  forth  and  coiiiii'and«;d  me 
to  ^h  ire  in  the  inanagemeiit.  of  its  concerns.  I  obeyed  the  mandate. 
Thi-re  existed  iibu»e8;  and  I  stood  up  against  them.  Tyrannits  were 
rife;  and  I  dcHlioycd  them.  Tlifre  were  rights  and  pi  iiniple.-< ;  and  I 
proclaiiiie<i  and  confessed' them.  The  territory  was  invjided;  I  defended 
Its  K'il.  Fraiiee  wis  tlinaiened  ;  I  bared  my  bnust  to  ilu'  iiniioy.  I 
KUM  not  rieh  ;  I  uin  now  p^or.  ?  was  one  of  the  welders  of  liie  Mate; 
the  v.iitlis  of  the  bank  were  p  lekivdi  iviili  coin  to  lli.it  deiri' e  ili.tt,  the 
Walls,  ready  to  burht  under  the  pn'.s^urc  of  silvir  and  g'.ld,»li  id  to  bo 
p  op|H<  I  up;  and  I  took  my  me»ls.  Hue  de  I'Arirc  Sec,  at  a  board  which 
dined  it-*  vixitors  at  the  rate  of  tw  ntytwo  cents  pi  r  head.  Tllo  op- 
pressed I  have  succored,  and  the  f-uffering  I  have  relieved  True,  thnt  I 
rent  ilie  allar-cloth  asunder;  'but  it  wan  to  >taiinch  the  eountry'.s  wounds. 
I  h.ive  ever  sustained  the  onward  niijrcli  of  ina'<kind  iu  the  diieition  'f 
the  light;  but  I  have  Honietinics  resisted  (hat*  progie.-<H  vrhi  h  would 
-ruililetisly  crush.  I  have,  on  occasion,  protected  yours,  my  own  udver-- 
Baries  At  I'.-tcglieiii,  in  Flanders,  on  the  very  i-pot  whieii  bore  the 
Buiiuuer  pa'ace   of   the    Merovingiau    kings,  there  is  a  nionaslery  of  the 


FANTINE.  43 

Order  of  tbe  I'rbaaist.^ — tlie  Abbey  of  St.  Claire — wliiclj  I  savei^frrim 
destruction  in  ]79'2.  I  liave  done  my  dut}'  to  the  best,  uf  my  piwor  and 
all  llie  good  tliat  I  could  compass.  Afttr  wlii'di  1  was  drivtu  away, 
tracki'd,  hunted,  ji'-iaecuted,  slandered,  jeered,  f-pit  upon,  cniscd  anTl  pro- 
scribed. Fur  now  many  yi-iirs,  Jor  all.  my  white  hairs,  I  havu  IVlr.  that 
niniiy  bidieve  that  tlu;y  have  the  rigljt  to  de.-pi.<ie  me.  In  the'  iujagiiia- 
tiou  uf  tlie  p'!(tr,  ijiimrant,  herd,  1  bt-ar  on  my  face  the  slij^'nias  nf  the 
dainneil,  and,  hatin^  nu  one,  I  .*iibmit  to  the  i.-ulalion,  in  wliieh  hatred 
has  cniircled  my  life  I  am  eighty-six  years  old  ;  and  I  am  now  abuut 
to  die.      \Vli;it  i.s  it  that  ynu  have  come  tu  ask  of  me  ?" 

"  Your  ble.-.sing,"  8aid  (he  M.>;hup,  as  he  ktielt  down.  Whm  lie  lifred 
up  his  head,  tlie  face  of  the  couvfenliuner  was  stamped  with  njajcsty.  Fie 
bad  ju.-^l  expired. 

Tlie  bi.'^hup  returned  to  his  home,  deeply  ab.*orbcd  in  thoughts  ufmt- 
^tered.      Tfiat.  whole   night  he  .«pent  in  .{trajer.      Next  day,  some  uf  the 

more   boldly  inqtiisiiivy  attempted  to  speak  to  lii.n  of  G ,  the  con- 

veutiouer.  He  im  rely  pointed  to  Heaven  From  tbaf  hour,  his  ten- 
derne.<s  and  brotherly  love  fur  the  lowly  and  the' fnffeiinj^  inerea^cd  in 

intensity       Every  alhisiun   to  G ,  '•  the  old  scoundrel,"   threw  him 

into  a  singularly  thtughtful  moi'd.  No  one  c.mld  assert  that  the  revela- 
tii>n  of  tliat  miiid  to  him,  and  the  reflex  of  that  high  conr^cienee  upon 
bis  own,  had  nut  .'•omcthing  to  do  wiih  bin  nearer  appriniehes  ti  peit'ec- 
tion.  This  "  I  astiiral  visit"  naturally  afforded  rjum  fur  the  buzzing 
commentary  of  the  local  eoicrie.s  : 

"  Nuw,  was  it  the  place  of  a  bishop  to  stand  at  the  dealh-b''d  of  such 
a  man?  Iherc  cvidenily  was  no  conversion  to  be  cx{)ecled  there  All 
(bese  rovulutiuni-ts  are  relap.sers  and  fur  ever  cut  off  frum  grace.  Then 
why  go  there?  What  did  he  go  there  to  see  ?  He  mu^l  then  have 
been  very  .anxious  to  feed  hj.s  curiosity  with  the  .*ight  uf  the  dev.l  carry- 
ing off  a  snul 

One  day  a  dovvager,  one  of  the  impertinent  variety  of  the  cln^>s  that 
deem  themselves  witry,  addres.sed  him  with  (his,  sally  :  "My  Lord,  there 
are  people  that  ask  when  your  greatness  will  be  culled  .to  the  red  cap?" 
"Oil !  uli !"  atiswer  d  the  bish<ip,  '♦  that's  a  vfcry  glaring  colur  !"  Luckily, 
tli'-se  who  abhur  it  in  a  cap,  revere  it  in  a  hat." 


44  i.K<   \f  si'iiAnLKS. 

T  H  E'   F  A  L  L. 

I. 

TilK    NICIIT    OF    A    OAV's    TIIAMI'. 

An  hour  before  punset,  on  the  evening  of  :i  <Iay  in  the  hopinniiig  of 

October,  li^lf),  R  iiiiin  tiavclling  alVint  cntorcl  the  liitio  town  ut'  l) -. 

The  f'l  w  |.crs<  U.S.  who  ;it  this  ti.ii'^  \*ori:  «t  their  windows  or  tlicir  <h»orfl, 
rcfT'inli'd  this  travrlh  r  witli  a  soit  <if  distrust.  It  woii!d  have  h  cti  liard 
to  find  a  passer-by  ini>rc  wiitcJicd  in  ajtpearaneo.  He  was  a  man  of 
inid<ih'  iu'i;.'lit,  stout  and  hardy,  in  the  stnugth  uf  ni;»tiuiiy;  lie  mijiht 
have  been  f-irTy-six  or  seven.  "A  s'ouihi'd  Nuifhcr  cap  Iialf.  hid  his  faee, 
bronzed  Ity  ihe  Min  and  witid,  an<l  drip|>in^  with  sweat.  His  shaggy 
breast  wa>  set  ii  lhr"U<rli  the  ecarse  yelhrw  >liirf,  which  at  the  neck  was 
fastened  by  a  sur^JI  kiIvci;  anehur;  b<,'  wore  a  cravat  twi-teil  bke  a  rope; 
.coarse  blue  trowm-rs,  worn  and  shabby,  white  on  one  knee,  and  with 
holes  in  llu«  oihtr;  iin-<dd  r.ij»i;cd  ;>rey  Lhiuse,  p^tib' d  on  one  side  with 
t  piece  of  green  eh>ih  scwid  with  twine:  upon  lijs  biiek  was  a  well  hlKd 
knapf^aek,  strcn^dy  biukKd  atwl  (|uiio  ni  w  In  bis  bund  he  carried  an 
enormous  knottid  slit  k  :  bis  siockiu'^h-Ks  feet  were  iu  hobnailed  shoes; 
his  hair  w;is  or<-pped  and  Ids  beard  long. 

The  sweat,  the  heat,  bis  long  walk,  nnd  the  dust,  nddcd  an  inde- 
Beribab'e  meuitn<'.ss  to  his  taft(  red  appearaoLe. 

His  \\vt  was  sh  irn,  bu'  bri>tly,  lor  it  had  b"gun  to  grow  a  litllc,  and 
i»pcniin;:ly  bad  iioi  bem  eut  fur  sunie  time.  Nobndy  knew  him  ;  be  was 
eviden  ly  a  trav«ller.      Whence   had  he  conic?      Froni    the   south — por- 

linps  from  the  s<'a  ;    for  he  was  in  king  bis  entrance  into    D by  the 

paiue  road  by  wliitdi,  seven  months  hd'ore,  'he  K)uperor  Napoleon- went 
froju  CnniH's  to  l*Hris  This  man  mu^t  have  walked  all  d.y  long;  for 
he  nppuind  v.  ry  weary.  8omo  women  of  the  idd  eity,  which  is  at  the 
lower  part  of  tlie  town,  had  .-cm  him  stop  under  iho  trees  of  the  boule- 
vard (las.sendi,  nnd  diink  at  the  fountain  whieli  is  at  the  end  of  the 
pronieua<le.  •  He  niu-t  have  been  very  thirsty,  forsonje  children,  \yho 
followed  liin,  saw  b  in  st.ip  not  two  hundred  steps  further  on  and  drink 
Again  at  the  fountain  in  the  inarketpllVc. 

When  he  reaeh<-d  the  corner  ol  the  Kue  Poieluvert,  he  turned  to  the 
left;  and  went  towaid.H  the  mayor's  office.  lie  went  in,  uud  a  quarter  of 
8n  hour  afterwards  he  came  out. 

The  man  raistd  his  cap  bu!nb!y  and  pululed  a  gcnd'arme  who' wag 
seated  near  the  door,  njMUilhe  stoni'-hemh  which  fitiferal  [)rouot 
inounteil  (m  the  fourth  of  March,  to  reail  to  the  terrified  inhabitants  of 
P the  pn-cl  iniation  cd"  the   (lolf,  .hviii. 

AViihoiit  retiiiniiig  his  Kdutntiou,  ih-  geiid'arme  looked  at  him  atten- 
tively, watched   him  for  some  distance,  an*!  the  ti  went  into  the  city  hall. 

Tlieic   was    thfu    in    D a   good    inn,  called    />«  ('rijii-ilc-t'olbnx; 

0tH  ho^l  waB  ii:«ijed  tJaetjuin    Lab;irre,  a  man  hold  iu  some  consideration 


FANTINE.  45 

in  the  town  on  account  of  his  k  latinu.ship  with  anoflier  Liibarre,  who 
kept  an  i^in  at  (jlreniibk',  called  Tn>is  Duupliins,  ami  who  had  served  iu 
the  Guides.  At  the  time  of  tlie  laiidiiiir  of  the  Emperor,  tliere  liad  been 
piueh  nuise  in  the  country  abnut  tliis  inn  of  the  Tmis  Dnuphiiis.  It 
was  said  tliut  General  lieitiaud,  disguised  as  a  wa«inuer,  ha  1  made  fre- 
quent ji>urt)ejs  ibither  in  the  aionih  id'  January,  and  that  he  bad  •dis- 
tributed crosses  of  honor  to  the  sobiiers  and  bandfuls  of  N;ipoienns  to 
the  country-folks.  The  trutli  is,  that  the'Enipen'r,  when  he  entered  . 
Grenoble,  refused  to  take  up  bis  ijuarters  at  (lie  Prefecture,  sayin^r  to 
the  Mou-ieur,  after  thaukinjr  Iiim,  "/  am  (johnj  (o  thi-  /imisr.  i>f'  a  brave 
man,  with  ivftom  I  am  arquaiiifii/,"  and  lie  went  to  the  Tr  is  Dimpliins. 
This  jilory  t)f  Ijabane  of  the-  7V'//.s  '^aiifthius  was  reflecK  d  tw.  uiy-fivo 
miles  to- Jjubarre  of  the  Cr  u.c-<f(*-('(//fKis  It  was  a  coUiUiou  sayiug  in 
the  town  :   "  II<-  is  the  lotiain  o/'  the  Gnnohh.  man  !"  » 

The  traveller  turned  his  s'.eps  towards  this  inn,  which  was  the  best  in 
the  p'ace  ami  went  at  ouce  into  the  kitchen,  which  opened  «ut  of  the 
street.  All  the  ranges  were  fuming,  and  a  great  fire  was  burning  briskly 
in  file  cbimneyfdaee.  Mine  host,  who  \^as  at  the  Fame  time  head  cook, 
xvas  going  from  the  fin'-phice  to  the  Kauce-pans,  very  busy  superintend- 
ing ancxcellent  dinner  for  some  wagoners,  who  were  laughing  anj  talk- 
ing noisily  iu  the  next  foiun.  Whoever  has  travelled  ku"wsth'at  nobody 
lives  better  than  wagou'  rs  A  fat  Inarmpt,  flanked  by  white  partridges 
and  goos^^  was  luniing  on  a  long  spit  before  the  fire;  upon  tlu  ranges 
were  cooking  two  large  carps  from  Lakft  Lauzet  and  a  trout  from  Jjuke 
Alloz. 

The  host,  hearing  (he  door  opon,Aud  a  uew-comer  cuter,  said,  without 
raising  his  eyes  fiom  his  ranges — 

«'  What  wi  1  Monsieur  have?"    - 

"Something  to  cat  and  lodging." 

"Nothing  more  easy,"  said  mine  host,  but,  on  turning  his  head  and 
taking  an  observation  of  the  traveller,  he  added,  "for  pay." 

The  man  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  leather  purse,  aud  answered, 

"  I  have  money." 

"Then,"  ^aid  mine  host,  "  I  am  at  y<nlr  service  '' 

The  man  put  his  pur.so  back  into  his  pocket,  took  off  his  knapsack  and 
put  it  down   bard   Ijy  ttic    doi^r,  apd  holding  his  slick   in    his   hand,  sat 

down   oti  a  b'W  stocd  by  the  fire.      D being  in   the  mountains,  the 

evening.s  of  Oetober  are  cold  there. 

However,  as  the  host  passed  backwards  and  forwards,  he  kept  a  careful 
eye  OQ  the  traveller 

"  Is  dinner  almost  ready?"  said  the  nlan. 

"Directly,"  said  mine  host. 

While  the  newcomer  was  warmuig  himself  with  his  back  turned,  the. 
worthy  inrdceeper,  Jaequiu  Labirre,  took  a  pi'Ueil  from  his  pocket,  aud 
then  tore  off  the  corner  of  an  old  pafier.^vltieh  he  pulled  from  a  little 
tablo  near  the  wiodow.  On  the  margin  be  wrote  u  line  or  two,  folded 
it,  and  hande<l  the  seiiip  of  [laper  to  '4  child,  who  !ip|Hjired  to  .«erve  him 
as  lae<|uey  and  scullion  at,  the  same  liinc.  The  innkeeper  whispered  a 
word  to  the  b'ly,  and  he  ran  off  in  the  directiua  of  the  mayor's  office. 

The  traveller  faw  notl^ini'  of  thi». 

lie  asked  a  Bccund  tiuic  :  /'  la  dinner  rcaBj  ?  " 


46  I.KS    MiSfiRAHLKS. 

"  W'f -f  in  a  f.-w  tnrii>u-ni8,"  p;»i<l  ihc  lio«t. 

The  hiyy  v;vm-  li«rk  wi'h  the  pnpor.  Tbe  -host  luifol.Jed  it  \^irricdly, 
RH  one  wli"  i-*  rxpoitiiig  un  an^wiT  lit-  seemed  fo  ie.id  with  ntti  iiiinD, 
lh<n  ihiovviii^  lii^  Im'.kI  on  one  side,  tli<>ti>:lit  f<>r  n  uinufiit  Tluii  he 
tocilc  a  Htfji  l"WarJ"<  ihe  traVelli-r,  who  si-eiueU  drowni^'d  in  troublous 
thi'tiv'lil 

'•  Sir."  8'ii  !•'',  "  I  cannot  ropoive  you.'-' 

The  triivillcr  hiilf  rose  fnrtii  hi**  seat 

"  Why  ?  Arc  you  afraid  I  shall  not  pny  you,  or  do  you  w;iut  nic  to 
pay  in  juivanco?      I  have  the  uiuni  y,  I  tell  you." 

♦'  If  is  in>L  that." 

"Whit  then?"  , 

"  Vou  have   money — " 

•*  Yes,"  «ii>l  the  man. 

.**  And  I,"  said  the  host,  "have  no  room." 

"  \Vi  II,  put  mc  in  the  stuble,"  (juietly  rvpHed  the  nrian. 

**  I  cann-'i." 

•'Wliy?"  • 

"  lk'o;iu-c  the  hf^.^ps  take  nil  the  room  " 

*'  ^^i'"»"  ri'Hpond  d  the  man,  •'  a  crncr  in  the  ■'arret  ;  a  tru»»  of 
straw  :    we  will  »-ce  uhmii  that  after  dinner."  * 

•  •  •  !•  It       . 

••  I  cannoi  pive  you  any  dinniT 

Thin  derhraiion,  nui'le  in  u  Uieusurcd  but  firm  tone,  appeared  serious 
to  tlic  traveller       lie  <iul  up.        # 

"Ah,  Itiili  1  but  I  am  dving  with  hunirer  I  h:ive  walked  hince  sun- 
rii»e;  1  have  travelled  twelve  leagnei*  1  will  pay,  and  1  want  souietliin^' 
to  eat." 

"  I  have  noihin;!,"  paid  the  host. 

The  man  biir.^t  into  a  lau^h,  and  turned  towurd.s  the  fire-place  and  the 
rnn<:<'« 

«'No!hin-!   and  all  thaty" 

"  All  ih.il  is  engaged." 

"  liywiiom  '(" 

"  IJy  llio.se  person",  the  waponqrs." 

"  II<»iv  m:iny  aro  there  of  them?" 

"Twrlve  "       ' 

"There  is  cnou;:h  there  ftir  twenty." 

"They  have  c»j;agc<l  and  p.iid  f-o-  it  all  in  advance." 

The  man  sat  down  again  and  said,  without  rai,->ing  liis  votec  : 

"  I  am  ul  an  inn       1  nm  liunj;ry,  and  I  .-hall  stay  " 

The  hi8t  beut  down  to  his  vnv,  and  said   in  a  vniee  whieh   made   him 
tremble  : 
.     "  (.]<•  gwuy  I' 

At  tlK8j  wordii,  the  traveller,  who  was  bent  over,  pokinjj  some  embers 
in  the  firo  wiih  the  iron-shod  *nd  of  his  stick,  turmd  suddenly  amnnd, 
fiml  npeiicd  his  mouth,  as  if  to  reply,  whin  the  host,  htoking  sie  idily  at 
him,  ailded  in  the  same  low  tone  :,"  Stop,  no  more  of  that  Siiall  I  toll 
you  y nil r  name?  Your  name  i.s  Jean  \'aljran.  Now  «!nill  I  tell  you 
<(■/(«  yi.u  arc?  When  I  saw  yoti  enter,  I  suspi  cted  som.lhinj^.  I  sent 
ta  the  miyiir'fi  offK-e,  and  here  i.s  the  vi  ply.  Qiin  yon  read  T'  So  say- 
iog,  he  held  tdward.s  him  the  open  pa])cr,  which  had  just  eumc  from  the 


FANTINE.  "  47 

niavor.     The  m-\n  oast  a  look  upon  it.     The  innkeeper,  after  a  short 
sik-rici',  8ai(1  :   "  It  is  my  custi'iii  to  be  polite  to  all :   "  Ijo  !" 

The  man  bowel  his  head,  picked  up  his  knapsack,  and  went  out. 
.  }Ic  t'liik  the  principal  street;  he  wa'ked  at  lando^n,  fliuki?!}^  ?icar  the 
houses  like  a  snd  and  humiliated  ni:in  :  he  did  not  once  turn  around. 
If  he  had  turned,  lie  would  have  seen  the  innkeeper  of  the  C  (n'.c  <fe 
Co/hns,  8tandin<r  in  his  doorway,  with  all  his  guests,  and  the  pas-crs  by 
Ijathered  about  hiui,  speakiiiji;  excitedly,  and  pointiti<;  him  out  ;  atid 
from  the  hjoks  of  fear  and  distrust,  which  were  eschan<:ed,  lie  would 
have  guessed  that  before  long  his  arrival  would  be  the  talk  of  ihe  whole 
tflwn. 

lie  Paw  nothing  of  nil  this:  people  overwhelmed  with  tronhle  do  not 
look  hchiu  I;   they  know  only  to*  well  that  misfu'tuno  fidlows  ih'  m. 

He  walked  ahuig  in  this  way  some  time,  going  by  chance  down  streets 
unkni'wu  to  him,  and  forgetting  fatigue,  as  is  the  ca.se  in  sorrow.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  a  pang  of  hunger;  night  was  at  hand,  and  he  looked  aiuund 
to  see  if  he  could  not  discover  a  lodging. 

The  good  inn  was  clo.'cd  against  him  :  he  sought  some  humble  tavern, 
some  pi'or  cellar.  • 

Just  then  a  light  shone  at  the  end  of  the  street;  he  saw  a  pine  branch, 
banging  hy  an  iron  bracket,  against  (he  white  sky  of  the  twilight.  He 
went  thither.  •  ' 

It  was  a  tavern  in  tj^e  Hue  Chaftaut. 

The  traveller  stopped  a  moment,  and  looked  in  at  the  little  window 
upon  th.e  low  liall  (d'  'he  tavern,  liglited  by  a  small  lanip  upon  a  'able, 
and  a  great  fire  in  the  chiuir.ey-place  So;ne  men  were  drinking,  and 
the  lio^t  was  warming  himself;  an  iron-pot  hung  over  the  fire  seething 
in  the  hhiRO 

Txo  d'lor.^  led  into  this  tavern,  which  is  also  a  sort  of  eiiinghouse — 
one  from  the  street,  the  other  from  a  small  court  full  of  rubbi~h 

'j'he  traveller  diil  not  dare  lo  enter  by  the  street  door;  he  slipped  into 
the  durt,  stopped  again,  then  timidly  raised  the  latch,  and  pu.>-hcd  opcQ 
the  d  'or. 

•♦  Who  is  it?"  said  the  host 

"  Une.  who  wants  supper  arid  a  b(d." 

"  All  right:  here  you  can  sup  and  sleep." 

Tie  W'  nt  in,  all  the  men  who  were  drinking  turned  towards  hinri ;   the 
lamp  shininj^  on   one  side  of  lii.s   face,  the  fin  light  on  the  other,  they' 
cximined  him  for  some  time  as  he  was  lifking  off  his  knap-^aek. 

The  host  said  to  him  :  "There  is  the  fire;  the  sup}ier  is  cooking  in 
the  pot;   come  atid  w.irm  yourself,  comrade." 

He  scaled  hini.si  If  near  the  fireplace  and  stretched  his  feet  out  towards  , 
th"  fire,  h:ilf  deal  with   fati<ruc  :  siu   inviting  odor  rHine  from    »lie   pot. 
All  th;it  could  be   seen  of   his   face   under  his   slouched   caf*   MW-uutcd   a 
Vague  appearance  of  comfort,  which  tempered  the  sorrowful  aspect  given 
him  by  JMUi:  coniiiluxid  nuflTering    . 

His  profile  wa."*  ftirong,  entrgctie.  and  sad;  a  physiognomy  strangely 
niark<(l  :  at  fi  sf  it  apjicared  humble,  but  it  soon  became  severe.  His 
eye  shine  beneath  hi.<  eyebrows  like  a  fire  In  neath  a  thicket.  • 

However,  one  of  the  nu'n  at  (he  t.-ibh;  was  a  fishcrmuti  who  hnd  put 
up  hi.i  horjic  at  the  stable  of  Labarre's  inn  before  entering  the  tavern  of 


48  LE3  m;s6«ables. 

the  Kiiff  <lc  Chaffaut.  It  ko  happoncd  that  he  had  met,  that.  Fame  morn- 
iug,  ilii*  «u»picioiis-h>oking  hirangtr  travellinu;  between  Bras  d'Asse 
and — f  fofjfei  tht'  [ilaci-,  I  think  it  is  lOseoublon.  Now,  on  iiiffting 
h'tti,  tlie  man,  who  liccmed  already  vi-ry  miicli  falijiued,  ai'd  asked  him 
to  take  him  Oil  boiiind,  to  which  the  fi>liiriii!iu  re.«pi>n(k'd-(iidy  by  doub- 
!ini'  lii'*  |Mice.  The  (ishermau,  half  an  hour  bi  fore,  had  been  one  of  the 
thittn-j  ahniil  J:ic<|uin  Libirre,  and  had  himself  related  his  unpleasant 
meelitij'  with  him  to  the  people  nf  the  6V  />  ih  Cul/jas.  He  berkoncd 
to  iho  tavern-keeper  to  come  to  him,  whieh  he  tlid.  They  exeliaiJ«>ed  a 
few  words  in  a  low  voice;   the  traveller  had  ag;iin  rela|iM'd  into  thought.- 

'I'lie  tavern-keeper  refunie<l  to  the  fire,  and  laying  his  hand  roughly 
on  his  siiou  der,  said  har.-hl}': 

"  You  ar  ■  going  to  clear  out  from  heu> !  "  ' 

The  stranger  turned  aroutid  and  s-aid  mildly  : 

•'Ah  !     Do  you  ktiow?  " 

"Y-s.'"'  ... 

"They  sent  me  away  from  the  other  inn." 

"And  we  lurn  you  out  of  this." 
*    "  Where  wonid  yon  have  me  go?" 

"  S<»mewh'  re  else."  :. 

The  man  t<»ok  up  his  stjck  and  knap.sack,  imd  went  off.     As  he  went' 
out,  Rome  ehildrenwho  had  followed  him  from  the  Croix  de  C'/f  ffs,  i\nd 
Bcemed  to  be  waif'ng  for  lii^n,  threw  stones  at  liii^       He  t'lrned  angrily 
on  1  tlireaicncd  iheui  with  hii   .stick,  and  they  scattered  like   a  flock  of 
birds  • 

He  passed  the  prison  :  an  iron  chain  hung  frou;  tho  door  attached  to 
0  1»>'I1.      He  rang. 

'J'he  grating  opened. 

"Mr.  Turnkey,"  said  he,  taking  oft' his  cap  respectfully,  "  will  you 
open  aiiil  let  me  stay  hereto-night  ?" 

A  Voice  answi-red  : 

'.'  A  prison  i>  not  a  tavern  :  get  yoursf^Jf  arrested  and  we  will  open." 

The  -.rating  clo.sed. 

He  went  into  a  «maM  street  where  there  are  many  gardens  j  some  of 
them  are  enclos-d  oidy  by  hedges,  whieh  enliven  the  sfieet.  Among 
them  he  saw  a  pr-ity  lit'le  one  st'ry  house,  where  there  was  u  light  in 
the'winrhtw  He  looked  in  as  he  had  done  at  tho  tavern.  It  was  a 
large  whitewashed  rooni,  wirii  a  b'd  diapeil  with  calico,  and  a  cradle  in 
the  corner,  some  woixien  chairs,  and  a  Wluiblivharrelled  gun  hung  against 
the  wall  A  table  was  net  in  the  wntre  of  the  ro6in  ;  a  bras.s  lamp 
lighted  t'lo  coar-e  white  tablecloih  ;  a  titi  mug  full  of  wine  shouc  like 
eilver,  and  the  brown  soup  dish  wa^  smoking.  At  ihi.s  table  sat  a  man 
about  foi  fy  yeais  old,  witli  a  joydus,  open  ciuntenance,  who  w.is  frottiui^ 
n  link*  child  upon  his  knee.  Near  hy  him  a  young  woman  was  aoekling 
another  child  ;  the  father  was  laughiug,  the  child  was  laughing,  and  the 
mother  was  smiling 

The  traveler  remained  a  moment  contemplating  (his  sweet  and  touch- 
ing seem".  What  were  Ills  thoughts  ?  •  He  only  could  have  fold  :  pro- 
bab'y  lie  kliought  th.it  this  happy  home  wnuld  he  hospitab  c,  and  that 
where  h"  beheld  so  much  happiness,  he  might  perhupH  tind  a  little  pity. 

He  rapped  faiutly  on  the  wiudow. 


fanti:jb.  ,  43 

No  one  ht'ard  him.  . 

Ho  ni[iped  a  second  time. 

He  heard  the  woman  say,  «  Husband,  T  think  I  hear  some  one  rap." 

"No,"  replied  the  hu-baud. 

He  rapped  a  third  time.  The  husband  got  up,  took  the  lamp,  ani 
opened  the  door. 

He  vva.s  a  tall  man,  half  peasant,  half  niechaftc.  He  wore  a  lar^'9 
leather  apron  that  reached  to  his  left  shoulder,  and  formed  a  pocket 
containing  a  hammer,  a  red  handkerchii-f,  a  powder-horn,  and  all  sorts 
of  things  which  the  girdle  held  up.  He  turned  his  head;  his  shirt, 
wide  and  open,  showed  hi,s  bull-like  throat,  white  and.  nakcil ;  he  had 
tliiek  brows,  enormous  bla'ck  whiskers  and  pmniiuent  eyes;  tlie  lower 
part  uf  the  face  was  covered,  and  had  witlial  that  air  of  being  ut  homo 
which  is  quite  indescribable. 

'*Sir,''  said  the  traveller,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  for  pay  can  you  give 
me  a  plate  of  soup  and  a  corner  of  the  shed  in  your  garden  to  sleep  in  ? 
Tell  me;  can  you,  forpny?" 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  demanded  the  master  of  the  house. 

Tlie  man  replied  :  "  I  have  come  from  Puv-VJoisson  ;-  T  have  walked 
ii.]\  day;   1  have  come  twelve  leagues       Can  you,  if  I  pay?" 

"  1  wouldn't  refuse  to  lodge  any  proper  [)erson  who  would  pay,"  said 
the  peasant ;   "  but  why  do  you  not  go  to  the  inu  ?" 

"  Tliere  is  no  room  " 

"  Bah  !  That  is  not  possible.  It  is  neither  a  fair  nor  a  market-day, 
Havi'-you  been  to  Labarre's  house?" 

"  Yes  " 

»  Well  ?" 

The  traveler  replied  hesitatingly:  "I  don't  know;  ho  didn't  take 
uier' 

"  Have  you  been  to  that  place  in  the  Rue  Chaffaut?" 

The  embarrassment  of  the  stranger  increased;  he  stammered:  "They 
didii''t  take  me  cither  " 

The  peasant's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  distrust:  he  looked  over 
the  ni:A'-eomer  frftm  head  to  foot,  and  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  a  sort 
of  shudder  :  "  Are  you  the  man  !" 

He  look'd  again  at  the  stranger,  stepped  back,  put  tht?  lamp  ou  the 
table,  and  loik  down  his  gun. 

His  wife,  oa  heaaug  the  words,  "  are  i/ou  (he  ni'in,"  started  up,  and, 
clisping  her  two  children,  precipitately  took  refuge  behind  her  husband  j 
she  l.iukeil  at  tlie  stranger  with  atTiight,  her  neck  bsire,  her  eyes  dilated, 
murmuring  in  a  low  tone  :   "  T.^o  rnnrniult  !"* 

All  this  happened  in  loss  tinio  thin  it  takes  to  read  it  ;  after  exaniia- 
iui^  the  mm  for  ;i  moment,  .13  one  would  a  vipor,  the  man  advanced  to 
the  dour  and  said  : 

"(Jet  out!" 

"  For  pity's  sake,  a  glass  of  water,"  said  the  man. 

"  A  guHshot,"  said  the  peasant,  and  iht4i  he  closed  the  door  vio- 
lently, Jincl  tlio  man  heard  two  heavy  b  tits  drawn.  A  momeot  afltcr- 
warda  tbc  window-shu'ters  were  shut,  and  noisily  barred 


*  Patoia  of  the  Frencb  A)ps,  "  Chut  dt  mavaud$." 


50  LKS    MISKRABLtS. 

Ni..Mc:..ncon*«r^-^;  M.cc^M  Alpine  wi.uls  ^fvere  blowing ;  by^tho 
H^l.M.f  \\u-  cxi.i.in-  d..v  ilic  Klnm^er  pcTceivcd  in  one  of  ilic-  ga.dins 
vliicli  froiiUd  ihc  httiif  a  kind  ol'  liut  wl.i<  li  pcen.od  to  be  made  ot 
turf  •  lie  bobllv  <  le:irr.l  a  wooden  ft-ncc  :ind  f-und  bjinsclf  in  the  gar- 
din.'  HciKjrnl  tlie  liut  ;  its  door  was  u  narrow  b.w  iiitiunce ;  it  rc- 
feiublil,  in  «'«  oonRtru(ti..n,  tbj  shanti.  s  wliich  tlie  road  laborers  put  up 
f..r  tboir  tcmp<.iai)  HC#u-m-Mliiiion  Ho  doubtless  tbou;:lit  tlial  it  was 
in  f.icl  tbe  lodging  of  a  roa-i-laborer.  He  was  suffering  botb  from  cdj 
find  hunger,  lie  bad  reMgned  Itiiiiself  to  the  latter;  but  ihirc  at  least 
^8  a  sli.ltcr  from  the  cold.  Tli.-sc  buts  are  not  usually  oaupicd  at 
night.  He.gotdown  hikI  crawled  into  the  hut.  It  was  warm  there, 
•  nd  be  found  a  good  bed  of  straw,  lie  rorttcd'a  moment  upon  tiii>!  bed 
noiii>nlc>K  from  fiijigu.! ;  ibi-n,  as  his  knapsack  on  his  back  In-nbkd  him, 
Bud  it  would  make  a  good  pillow,  he  began  to  unbmklc  the  .strata. 
Just  then  ho  beanl  a  fero'.-ious  growling,  and  looking  up  saw  the  head  of 
an  enormous  bulldog  at  the  opening  of  the  but. 
.   It  was  a  dog  ki'iinid  ! 

He  was  himself  vigorous  and  formidable;  seizing  bis  fslitk,  bo  made 
ft  hhield  of  bis  knapsaek,  and  got  out  of  the  but  as  best  he  could,  but  not 
ri'b'Mit  enl-irgii'g  the  routs  of  bis  already  tattered  garments. 

He  made  bis  way  also  out  of  the  gardeUi- but  backwards;  lioinj* 
obli-'od,  ou(  fi/  rrnjnit  to  ffir  iI(hj,  to  have  recourse  to  that  kind  ol  nia- 
noeivro  with  bia  htick,  which  adepts  in  this  sort  of  fencing  call  la   ruse 

COVCrrlC. 

When  he  bad,  not  without  diflfioulty,  got  over  the  fence,  he  .ngaia 
found  himself  alone  in  the  street  without  lodging,  rpof  or  hhebcr,  driven 
even  from  the  straw  b-d  (»f  tliat  wjcetched  dog-kennel.  He  threw  him- 
Belf  rather  than  seaiel  himself  mi  a  stone,  and  it  appears  that  some  one 
vbo  wa.>»  pa6.<jing  beard  him  exelainj,   "  I  am  not  even  a  dog!" 

Thn  be  aroso,  an  I  began  to  tramp  again,  taking  bis  way  out  of  the 
town,  hoping  to  find  some  Ireu  or  haystaek  heneaih  wliieh  he  could  shtjl- 
Icr  himself.  He  wa'ked  on  for  some  time,  his  head  bowed  down. 
Vhen  be  ihiughtbe  was  far  away  from  aM  human  hat'italiim  ho  raised 
|i is  eyes  and  btoked  about  him  inquiringly.  He  wag  in  a  field:  before 
him  was  a  low  billoek  eov.'rod  with  siubhle,  which,  after  the  harvest, 
looks  lii;ea  shaved  head.  The  sky  was  very  d;;rk  ;  it  was  no'  simply  tho 
darkncis  of  night,  but  there  were  very  low  elouds,  which  .seemed  to 'rest 
upon  the  bills,  and  covered  the  whole  heavens.  A  little  of  tlie  twilight, 
however.  Hog'  red  in  ibo  /.enith  ;  anil  a^  the  moon  was  about  to  rise, 
Ibeae  clouds  foiinoil  in  mid  heuven  a  vault  ol  whitcish  light,  from  which 
a  glimmer  fell  upon  the  earth. 

Tlie  earth  was  thou  li;_'hier  than  the  tjky,  which  produces  a  peculiarly 
sinister  ellcct,  and  the  hill,  ])o  >r  and  mean  in  contour,  loomed  out  ilim 
and  pule  li^on  the  glooiny  horizon;  the  whole  prospect  was  hideous, 
mean,  lugubrious  and  in-igni(iiant.  There  was  nothing  in  the  field  nor 
upon  tho  hill  but  ori(!  ugly  tree,  a  few  steps  from  the  travcKr,  which 
seemed  to  be  twisting  anri  t-ontorting  i'solf. 

This  man  was  evid-ritly  far  from  possessing  tlio.ac  dercate  perceptions 
of  iuV'Higonce  and  feiding  n+ieh  produces  a  senMtivencss  to  'he  myste- 
rio  13  n.'pect.s  of  nature  ;  still,  there  was  in  tho  sky,  in  this  hillock,  plain 
ftQd  tree,  sometbing  so  profoundly  desolate,  that  after  a  monjent  of  mo- 


FANTINE.  51 

(jonloss  contemplation,  lie  tarncl  back  hastl'y  to  tlie  road.  Tliere  aro 
moments  when  uature  Jippi-ais  liosti  e. 

lie   retrac  d   his  steps;  the   j^ntes   of  D were  chxcd       D 

•^vhioh  pustainetl  sie<ies  in  the  religimis  wars,  was  still  surrouiided,  ia 
1815,  by  old  Will's  fliiiked  by  s(ju;ne  towers,  since  dctnulishcd.  lie 
pasised  tlirou^h  a  breach  and  entered  tlie  town. 

It.  was  about  eigl.t  o'clock  in  the  evening:  as  he  did  not  know  t ho 
streets,  he  walked  at  hazard. 

So  he  catne  to-the  prefecture,  then  to  the  seminary;  on   passing  bj 
'the  cathedral  .square,  he  sliiio'<  his  Bst  at  the  church. 

7\t  the  corner  of  this  sijuare  Rtand-<  a  printing-office;  there  were  first 
pri>ited  the  proclamations  of  th  ■  emperor,  and  tlie  imperial  j^iiard  to  the 
army,  brought  from  the  island  of  Elba^  and  dictited  by  Napoleoa 
Limst  If. 

Exhausted  jiritli  fatigue,  and  hoping  for  nothing  better,  he  lay  down 
on  a  stone  bench  in  front  of  this  |Hiniing-officc. 

Ju.st  then  an  old  woman  came  out  of  church.  She  saw  the  man  lyiog 
(here  in  ihe  dark,  and  said  : 

"  What  arc  you  doing  there,  my  friend?" 

He  replifc  1  liarshly,  and  with  anger  in  lii.s  tone  : 

"  You  see    iiiy  good  woman,  I  am  going  to  sleep."  , 

The  good  wcitiau,- wlio  really  merited  the  name,  was  the  Mar(iuise  of 
11 . 

•'Upon  the  bench?"  said  she.  , 

"For  nineteen  years  I   have  had  a  wooden  niattress,"  said  the  man; 
to  night  I  have  a  .•■toue  one." 
•  ««  Y'U  hnve  been  u  solTlier?"       *  • 

**  Yes,  my  good  woman,  a  soMier." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  inu  ?" 

"Because  1  have  no  money." 

i'  Alas  !"  said  the  Maiquine  of  R ,  "I  hav(f only  four  sous  iu  my 

purse." 

"Give  them,  then."     The  man  took  the  four  sous,  and  the  Ma>rquise . 
of  11 ,  continued  ; 

"  You  can  not  find  lodging  for  S0|little  in  an  inn.  But  havcv  you 
tr'cd  ?  You  can  not  pass  the  night  so.  You  must  be  cold  and  hungry. 
They  should  give  yoii  lo(]g<ng  for  charity." 

"  I  have  kmjcke'l  at  every  dOor." 

«  Well,  what  then?"    ■ 

"  Every  body  has  driven  nie  away" 

The  good  woman  touched  the  man's  arm  and  pointed  out  to  him,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  square,  a>  little  low  house  beside  the  bi.'ihop'a 
palace. 

•'  Have  you  knocked  at  every  door  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes" 

"  Have  you  knocked  at  that  one  there?" 

"  No." 

"Knock  there." 


52  LK3    >!rSKRADLE9. 

II. 
PRUDK.NCK   COMMENDED    TO    WISDOM. 

Tlint  ovttiinfr,  afier  his   w:»'k   in   tlie    »ovvn,  the  Hi  Imp  of  D ro- 

BMiu«  I  <|uiH;  lute  in  his  room.  He  w:i8  \m>y  with  iii**  great  work  oa 
Putv,  whi.  Ii  unfortuiiatfly  is  left  incuinpliCe.  lie  carefuriy  di>6ei;ted 
all  ihat  the  K;i«lier.i  iin<J  I)<»ct<irs  hav?  said  on  this  scriniis  t<i|iic. 

At  ei  lit  o'elock  he  was  htill  at  wcirk,  writing  with  ^onie  ineonvo- 
Dicoee  on  litlle  slips  of  paper,  with  a  large  bunk  open  on  his  knees,.  * 
when  Mrs.  Magloire,  as  u>ual,  came  in  u>  tike  tlif  .>-iJver  from  ilie  panel 
Qeiir  the  he<l  A  ini)ment  after,  flie  hi-liop.  knowing  tliat  »lie  table  wa» 
)ai<l,  iin«l  ibat  his  sister  was  pL-rhups  wailing,  dosed  his  book  and  weut 
into  the  dining-i*ooni. 

Th'-  d  niiigrooin  was  an  oblong  apattnient,  with  n  6repljiee,  and  with 
a  door  npon  the  street,  us  wc  iiave  said,  and  a  window  opening  Into  th« 
garden 

MrK  Magloire  had  jnst  finished  placing  the  plates.  While  she  WM 
arriini.'itig  ihe  table,  she  was  lalking  with  .Miss  Hapiistinc. 

Mi«^  Kaptintine  had  so  of'en  rclat<;<l  what  occurred  at  the  bishop'* 
bouse  that  evening,  that  many  pcr^uus  are  siill  living  whoc:in  recall  tho 
miiiutol  details. 

Ju-i  a>«  t!ie  bishop  entered,  Mrs  M:igloire  was  speaking  with  amnt 
warmtl).  Sift*  was  talking  to  .^liss  Hapii-^^tinc  upon  a  familiar  subject, 
and  one  to  which  the  bi-^hop  was  ijtiitc  uccuatoiued.  It  was  a  discussion 
OO  the  nieuns  <d'  fastening  the,  front  door. 

It  seem*  that  while  Mrs.  .^I.igloire  was  out  making  provision  for  sup# 
per,  she  ha<l  hcird  the  news  in  sundry  pbrces.  There  wa.M  talk  ihat  an 
ill  favored  runaway,  a  suspicious  vagabond  ha  I  arrived,  and  was  lurking 
eomcwiiere  in  the  t(jwn,  and  that  some  nnplcas.inl  adventures  might  befal 
those  who  aIiouM  come  home  late  that  night  ;  besides,  that  the  police 
wa.s  very  bid,  as  the  prefect  and  the  mayor  liid  not  like  tmc  anoilur, 
and  were  hoping  to  injure  each  othi-r.  by  untoward  events;  that  it 
was  the  part  (;f  wi-e  f eopio  to  be  thjir  own  police,  and  to  protect  their 
own  persons;  and  that  every  one  o'iglit  to  be  careful"  to  shut  up,  bolt 
and  bar  hi-*  house  properly,  and  xr^n-e  /tin  </ 1  is  lli<nnu(/hli/ 

Mr^.  Magloire  dwelt  u(>on  these  last  wonU^  but  the  bishop,  having 
come  fro'u  II  cold  room,  seated  hint.self  before  tlie  fire  and  began  {a 
warm  himself,  and  then,  he  was  tliinkinjr  of  something  else.  He  did 
nol  hear  II  word  ef  what -was  let  fall  by  Mr.s.  Magloire,  and  slie  repeated 
it.  Then  Miss  Kflpli.^line,  oudeavoring  to  f^ali.^fy  llrs.  Magloire  with- 
out displeasing   her  brother,  ventuied  to  say  timidiv: 

"  Hrother,  do  yon  hear  what  Mrs.  .>lagl.'iie  says?" 

"  I  heard  something  of  it  indistinctly,"  said  the  bishop.  Then  turn- 
ing his  chair  half  round,  putting  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  iai.>-ing  to- 
War.liH  the  old  servant  his  cordial  and  good-huinored  face,  which  the  fire- 
light vhonc  upon,  he  ,Miid  :  "  Well,  well  !  what  is  the  matter?  Are  wo 
ia  any  ijreal  danger?  " 

Then  .Mrs.Miigloire  began  her  story  again,  unconsciously  exaggerat- 
ing it  n  liftlo.  It  appeared  that  a  bare-footed  gipsy  man,  a  .sort  of  dau-' 
gerous  beggar,  was  in  the  town.     He  had  gone  for  lodging  to  Jacquin 


FANTINE.  .  S^ 

Labarre,  who  hail  refused  to  receive  liini ;  he  had  been  seen  to  enter  ^he 
tdwu  by  the  boulevard  <5ass(ndi,  and  to  roam  thiougli  the  street  at  dusk. 
A  man  with  a  knapsack  and  a  rope,  and  a  terrible-looking  face. 

''Inleeii!"  said  the  bisliffp.  */'■  * 

Tliis  readiness  to  question  her  oncourapod  Mrs.  Magloire  ;  it  seemed  to 
indicate  that  the  bi.shi<p  was  really  wrll  nigh  alarnnd.  She  continued 
triuinpliantlj  :  "Yes,  my  L  od  ;  it  is  true.  There  will  something  hap- 
pen to-night  in  the  town  :  every  body  .-ays  so.  The  police  is  so  badly  ' 
organized  (a  convenietit  repetition).  To  live  in  this  moui)tain<Jus  coun- 
try, and  not  even  to  have  strtcf  lamps  !  ,  If  one  goes  out,  h  is  dark  as 
a  pocket.      And  I  say,  ?ny  Lord,  and  Miss  liaptisfine  says  also — " 

"Me?"  interrupted  iho  sister;  "I  say  ugthing.  Whatever  tttj 
brother  does  is  well  done." 

Mrs.  Magloiie  wont  on  as  if  she  had  not  haard  the  protestation  : 

"  We  say  that  this  house  is  not  safe  at  all ;  and  if  my  lord  will  per- 
mit me,  I  will  go  and  tell  Piiulin  Muscboi»,  the  locksmith,  to  come  and 
put  the  old  bolts, ill  the  do^r  again;  they  are  there,  and  it  will  take  but 
a- minute.  I  say  we  must  have  bolts,  were  it  only  for  |.o-nighr;  for  I 
eay  th;U  a  door  which  opens  by  a  latch  on  the  outside  to  the  tirst  comer, 
D'Othing  could  be  more  horrible:  and  then  my  lord  has  the  habit  of 
always  saying,  '  t'ome  in,'  even  at  inidiiight.  But,  ray  goodness  !  there 
is  no  need  even  to  ask  leave — "  • 

At  this  m<nnent,  there  was  a  violent  knock  on  the  door. 

*'  Come  in  I  "  said  the  bishop. 


III. 
THE   HEROISM   OF  PASSIVE  OBEDIENCE. 

The  door  op(yicd. 

It  opened  quickly,  qtiite  wide,  as  if  puiihed  by  some  on«  Boldly  and 
with  etiergy. 

A  man  entered. 

That  man  we  know  already;  it  was  the  traveller  we  have  ^en  wao- 
dcring  about  in  search  of  a  bulging. 

He  came  in,  took  one  slop,  and  paused,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
hitii.  .  He  had  his  k|t;ip8ack  on  his  bauk,  hjs  stick  in  his  hand,  and  a 
rough,  hard,  tired  and  fierce  look  in  his  eyes,  as  seen  by  the  firelight. 
He  was  hideous.      It  was  an  apparition  of  ill-omen. 

Mrs.  Magloiie  had  not  even  the  strength  to  scream.  She  stood  trem- 
bling with  her  mouth  open. 

yW^a  IJaptistine  turm  d,  saw  the  man  enter,  and  started  up  half- 
ahirmcd  ;  then,  slowly  turning  back  again  towards  the  fire,  she  looked 
at  her  brother,  and  her  face  resumed  its  upiial  calmness  and  scrcuityi 

The  bishop  looked  upon  the  nuin  with  a  tranquil  eye. 

As  he  was  opening  his  mouth  to  speak,  doubtless  to  ask  the  stranger 
what  he  wantod  tlie  man,  h  aning  with  both  han<l8  on  his  club,  glanced 
from  one  to  another  in  turn,  4iud  without  waiting  for  the  Bi.shop  to 
fpeak,  taid  in  a  loud  voice  :  ,        • 


gj  LBS    MIpfiRABI.ES. 

..K.r  herd  My  nnmo  U  Jcn  Valjean.  1  cm  a  convict;  T  l.avc 
bcVn  ..iueic-n  jcnn<  in  ihc  g.ll.ys.  F..ur  .j:.p  ago  I  was  s.t  free,  a..d 
.l^r.d  for  Vonta.li.r,  •l.ich  is  n.y  d.--tt..a.iuu  ;  dunii|;  th..e  f.-ur  daja 
1  h.xc' walked  fr*n»  Toulon.  Today  I  ^mvc  walked  twelve  leajriics. 
When  1  re:..hpd  \U-  place  chis  cvniing  I  wvul  to  lui  nin,  and  they  sent 
B,c  ■•»y  *->  account  vf  n.y  yellow  |.,..s>|M.it,  whieh  I  had  sliuWM  at  tho 
B„y„r%  ofTue,  Hs  was  nee  s8ury.  I  went  to  another  inn  ;  they  saidj 
••Oct  out  !"  It  wart  the  same  wiili  one  as  with  another;  nobody  woiild 
bavc  n.r.  I  went  to  the  inisoii,  iiitil  ihu  turnkey  wouhJ  not  lei  me  in. 
1  crept  into  s  dog  kennel,  the  dog  hit  me.  and  drove  me  aWiiy  as  if  ho 
bnd  Item  a  man;  y-'U  wdul.l  h  vc  .>^aid  that  he  knew  who  I  wa.-<.  1  went 
into  the  liehis  to  sheji  hencalh  the  .'^tus:  ihcru  were  no  stare;  1  thought 
it  would  rain,  and  th.Te  was  no  g'-oj  IJod  lo  stop  the  drops.  hO  I  cuino 
baek  to  the  towu  to  gel  the  hhelter  ot  some  doorway  The  e  in  tbo 
equare  I  lay  rhiwn  up..n  a  stone;  a  good  Woman  showed  mo  yonr  house, 
and  Kiid  :  "Knock  there!"  1  liavt;  kni>ukcd.  What  is  ihis  place? 
Is  this  an  inn?  I  have  money  ;niy  ^avingn,  one  hundred  and  nine 
frune.H  and  Bitecn  Sous,  whieh  I  'iive 'earned  in  the  gallijs  by  my  work 
fovuineir*  II  ye'ars.  1  will  pay.  U  hut  d.  1  care  ?  Ihavenionji  lain 
fery  lircd  —  twelve  leiigne.-*  on  foot,  nod  I  am  «o  hungry.      Can  1  .stay?" 

"  Mrs    Maglnire,"  Puid  the  bi-ho|),  ••  |>ut'on  another  plate." 

Thv  man  took  th^ee  steps,  iind  e;inu'  near  the  lamp  whieh  s'ood  on 
the  tabic.  "  Slop,"  he  eXehiimed,  as  if  he  had  not  been  nnder-tood, 
••not  ihut,  did  you  un<leirtl..nd  me?  1  am  a  galley-.slave — a  conviel — I 
•ni  ju<t  from  ihe  ^rdleys  "  lie  drew  from  hi.s  pocket  a  large  t^heet  of 
tcllow  paper,  whieh  he  unfolded.  *' Tl  ere  i.i  my  pa.<vvport,  yellow  a.t 
you  H'c  TliMt  is  enough  to  huve  uw.  kic'^ed  out  wherever  1  go  •Will 
jdu  read  it?  I  know  how  to  rrnd,  1  do.  ,  I  Iciirued  in  the  giilhys. 
There  is  a  .school  there  for  those  who  earc  for  it  Scm',  here  is  what  they 
have   put   in   He   pa-sport;    'Jean    Vjdjeaii,  a  liberated  convict,   native 

,  of  ,'  you  don't  care  for  thai,  '  has  iieen   nineteen  years  in  the  gal- 

leyo ;  five  years  f.T  burglary  ;  fourtcdi  y(ars  for  having  attempted  four 
limes  lo'c.-'capc.  This  man  is  very  daii;icrou.s.'  'i'horc  you  have  ii  ! 
Kv«'r\body  bus  thrust  me  out.  Will  you  receive  me?  Is  tJiis  iin  inn? 
Can  y'lu  give  ine  humclliing  to  cat,  aM<l  a  jdace  to  sleep?  Have  you  a 
Btabl.?" 

•'  .^Irs  Mngloire,"  suid  the  bishop,  "  [nit  some  sheets  on  thi;  bed  iu 
Ihc  olcovc." 

Wf  huVc  already  described  the  kind  of  obediong;  yielded  by  these  two 
wohii-n  • 

Mrs    Magloirc  went  «<ut  to  f.dfill  her  nrdera. 

Tin-  bi'-hop  turned  to  the  man  : 

•'Sir,  HJt  down  mid  warm  yourself:  we  are  going  td  take  buppir  pre- 
Bonlly,  an<l  your  bt  (Kwill  be  made  r.  ndy  while  you  snp  " 

Ai  last  the  man  n'.iic  undersi..o.|  ;  his  faiv,  the  ex[iression  of  which 
till,  tin  bad  been  gloomy  and  hard,  now  exprcs.M'd  stupefaciion,  doubt 
«nd  j.iy,  and  beeume  absolutely  wunderful.  4le  began  to  stutter  like  i 
ISadiuun  : 

••Tiue?     What! 
•  coiuit.f  !     Yo 
bol^  (Ihc  does. 


IVhaf  !  Vou  will  keep  me?  You  won't  drive  me  away? 
^»u  call  me  Sir  and  don't  8ay,  'Get  out,  dog."  as  everj 
rs.      I   thought  that  yuu  would  Hcud  me  away,   so   1   told 


FANTINE.  55 

first  off  who  I  ain.  Oh  !  t'le  fine  woman  who  sent  me  here!  I  shall 
have  a  supper!  ;\  bed  like  otlK-r  people,  with  mattress  arid  sheets — a 
bed  !  It  is  nineteen  years  tluit  1  liave  not  slept  on  a  bed.  Y<iu-  are 
really  willing  that  I  should  stay?  You  are  good  people!  Pe.-ides  I 
have  iiKtiicy  :  I  will  pay-well.  1  beg  your  pirdon,  Mr.  Inniceeper,  what 
is  your  uaii.e  ?  I  wll  pay  all  you  say.  You  are  a  fiuo  man.  You  are* 
au  innkeeper,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  priest  who  lives  here,"  said  the  bishop  • 

"A  priest,"  said  the  man.  "Oh,  nnble  prie.st !  Then  you  do  not 
ask  any  money  ?  You  are  the  curate,  aren't  y«»u '{  the  curate  of  this  big 
church?     Yes,  that's  it.      IIuw  stupid  I  am  ;   I  didij't  notice  your  cap.** 

While  speaking,  he  had  deposited  his  knapsack  and  stick  in  the  cor- 
ner, replaced  hi.s  passport  in  his  pocket,  and  eat  down.  Miss  Baptuj^ibe 
jojkod  at  hiai  pleasantly.      Hc'cuiitinued  : 

"  You  are  humane.  Sir  Curate;  ynu  don't  despi.sc  me  A  good  priest 
is. a  good  thing.      Then  yoji  don't  want  me  to  pay  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  bishop;  "keep  your  money.  How  much  have  you  7 
You  said  a  hundred  and  nine  francs,  I  think.'/ 

"  Aud  fifteun  sous,"  added  the  man 

"  One  hundred  and  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sou3.  And  how  long  did 
it  take  3'ou  to  earn  that?" 

"  .^  inetten  years  " 

"  Nineteen  y^ars!" 

The  bishop  sighi-d  deeply. 

The  man  continued:  "I  have  all  my  tnnney  yet.  In  four  days  I 
spent  only  twenty  five  sous  which  I  earned  oy  unloading  wagons  at 
(iiassQ.  As  yf'u  arc  an  able,  I  must  tell  you,  we  have»an  almoner  in 
the  galleys.  And  then  one  day  I  saw  a  bishop  ;  niy  lord  they  calK-d 
him  It  VFa?  the  Bishop  of  Majore,  from  jMarseilies.  He  is  the  curate 
who  is  over  the  curates.  You  set. — beg  pardon,  how  I  bungh;  .".lying  it, 
but.  fur  rue,  it  is  so  far  off!  you  know  what  we  arg.  He  said  mass  la 
the  centre  of  the  place  on  an  altar  ;  he  had  a  pointed  gold  ihi.ig  «n  his 
head,  that  shone  in  the  snn  ;  it  was  naon.  We  were  drano  up  in  line 
ou  three  sjdes,^  with  cannons,  and  matches  lighted  bef'""«  u^-  We  could 
not  see  hiin  well  He  spoke  to  us,  b  it  he  was  nei  near  enough,  we  did 
not  understand  hivn.     That  is  what  a  bishop  is.' 

While  he  was  talking,  the  bi.-hop  shot  the  door,  which  he  had  left 
wide  open. 

iMi.^    Magloire  brought  in  a  plate  and  sc^'t  on  the  table 

"Mr.s.  Magloire,"  said  the  Bishop,  "put  this  plate  as  near  the  fire 
a^  you  can."  Then  turning  toward.-  ".i=^  g'««^^  );^  added:  "The  night 
wind  is  raw  in  the  Alps;  you  ni"-'''  be  "cold.  Sir. 

Every   timo   he  said  this  "ord   "Sir,"   with   his  gently  solemn,  and  ^ 
heartily  hospitable  voice,  ».'ie  man's  co.intenancH  lighted   up.      ii'r  to  a 
c.Mivict,  is  a  glass  of  ^ater  to  a  man  dying  of  ii.ir.-,t  at  sea.      Ignominy 

thirsts  for  respect.  *  i-  u    >» 

"  The  lamp,"  said  the  bishop,  "  gives  a  very  poor  light. 
Mrs    MawMre  understood    him,  and  going  10    hi.s   bedchamber,  took 
frnni  tho   mai.iel   the  two   silver   caudlcsiieks,  lighted    the   candles,  and 
placid  them  on  the  table.  ,     ,     j       • 

"  Mr.' Curate,"  said  the  man,  "you  are  good;  you  don  t  despise  me. 


56  LES    MIS^RABLES. 

You  take  me   into  your  home  ;  yon  light  your  cnndle^  for  nic,  nni  I 
fcavni  lii-1  from  you  whore  I  foine  from,  aud  how  iiii:5crablo  I  am." 

The  hi-ihop,  wh..  vf.s  siitin;,'  near  him,  touihed  his  huml  <:o»itly  nml 
••id:  "  Y.iu  ueed  uol  tell  me  vfhuyou  arc.  This  is  not  my  house;  it  w 
\hc  h->u>^e  of  Obrist.  It  dues  n»task  any  comer  wlicfh.r  he  has  a  name, 
.^ul  whether  he  has  an  affliclinti.  You  are  suffciiug ;  ym  are  hungry 
and  ihirtty;  be  w  Icome.  And  do  nnt  thank  mo;  (To  not  toll  mo  that  I 
4.<ike  yiu  iut)  my  house.  This  is  the^ho-.uc  of  no  man,  except  him  who 
Bccds  an  a-^yUiiu.  I  tell  you,  who  are  a  travi-llor,  that  you  arc  tiiore  at 
brtiue  here  thau  I;  whatever  is  ln-re  is  y.»urs.  What  need  have  I  to 
Inow  your  nune?  ^  He>idcs,  boloro  yoti  luld  mc,  I  knew  it." 

Tlie  man  opened  his  eyes  in  a8toiii.<hmetit  : 

'•  Kially  ?      You  know   my  name?" 

•^'es,"  answen-d  (lie  bislmp  ;   "yourname  is  my  brother." 

*'Stop,  stop,  Mr  Curate,"  exclaimect  the  man.  "I  was  famished 
i^hcu  I  came  in,  but  you  are  so  kind  that  now  I  don't  know  what  I  atu ; 
Ihat  is  all  pone" 

Tite  bi«hop  looked  at  him  again  and  said  : 

**  Yt»u  have  f^cen  much  suffering?  ' 

*•  Oh,  the  red   blou>^e,  the  ball  and  chain,  the'  plank  fo  sleep  on,  the 
heat,  the  cold,  the  galley's  crcw,  the  la«h,  t!ie  double  chain  ft»r  no'hing, 
llic  dun'eoi^  for  a  w-ird — even  when  sick   in  bed,  the  chain.     The  dogS, ' 
the  dogs  are   happier!  nineteen   years  I  and    I  am  forty -.si.s,  and    in>w  a 
yellow  p;i.s.>port.     That  is  all  " 

"  Yes,"  answereii  the  b'shi>p,  "you  have  left  the  place  of  suffering. 
But  lisieu,  there  will  be  more  j  ly  in  Ileaveti  over  the  tears  of  a  rc- 
|»ont.aot  f-iuimr,  flian  over  the  white  rob  .s  of  a  hundred  good  men.  If 
you  are  leaving  that  sorrowful  place  with  hate  and  anger  «gainst  men, 
jr-'U  are  worthy  of  ctimpa.s.-^icm  ;  if  ynu  leave  it  with  good-will,  geBtle- 
Dess  and  peace,  you  are  belter  than  any  of  us." 

Meantime  .>lrs.  Magloire  had  .served  up  supper;  it  consi.-fcd  of  soup 
made  of  water,  oil,  bread  and  salt,  a  little  purk,  u  scrap  of  mution,  a 
few  Ggs  H  gr.'cn  choeae  and  a  liugt;  lo.f  of  rye  bnad.  She  h  .d.  with- 
out  asking,  addcA  t^  the  dinner  of  the  bi.*;hop  a  bottle  of  fine  gltl  Mauves 
wine. 

The  bishop's  countcfmnce  wi.s  lighted  up  with  this  expression  of 
plcu-iuro,  peculiar  to  h  i.spiiaUle  natures.  "To  supper,"  he  sai<l  biiskly, 
».M  was  hi.  habit  when  1...  |,ad  a  guest.  ITe  .seated  the  man  at  his  right. 
Miss    H.ij)tistine,  perfectly  v^„iet  und   natural,  tt)ok  her  fdace  at  his  left. 

The  bi>h..p  wild  the  bles.-,iN^' :,nd  then  served  the  si.up  liim.scir,  ao- 
•cording  t..  his  usual  custom.     TIil  ,„;,n  tVII  to  eating  greedily 

Fud.lenly  the  bish-.p  said  :   *'  Ft  seen.i,  to  me  .souiHhing  is  lacking  on 
^   Ibe  table  "  ^  •= 

The  fact  WIS,  that  Mrs.  IMaghdre  bnd'sCl  out  only  the  three  plates 
vliich  were  ueiessary.  Now  it  was  the  cuslom-v.f  the  house,  wh  n  the 
tl-hop  had  any  one  to  RuppeV,  to  set  all  six  of  the  ^i.ver  plates  on  tho 
Iflble.  an  innocent  display  This  graceful  appearance  of  luxury  was  a 
•ort  of  ehiidhk-iness  whieh  was  full  of  charm  in  tliis  gentW  but  austere 
liousetiolii,  which  elevated  poverty  to  di;;niry. 

Mr.i    Magloire  understood  ihe   remark^;    without  a  word  she  wont  out 
•nd  tt   momeut  afterwards   the    throe  'plates   for  whieh  the  bishop   had 


FANTINE.  5f 

asked  were  shining  on  ibc  clotb,  symmetrically  aiTanged  before  eacb  of 
throe  guests. 


IV. 

SOME   ACCOUNT    OF    THE    DAIRIES    OF    PONTARLIER. 

Now,  in  order  (o  give  i\n  idea  of  what  passed  at  this  table,  we  can 
not  do  bettor  than  to  transcribe  hero  a  passage  in  a  letter  from  Misa. 
Baptistine  to  Mrs.  Boiscbevron,  in  wliich  the  conversation  between  the 
convict  and  the  bishop  is  related  with  charming  miijutcness. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  **^ 

"  This  man  paid  no  attention  to  any  one.  He  ate  with  the  voracity 
of  a  starving  man.     After  supper,  however,  he  said  :         *  , 

"  'Mr.  Curate,  all  this  i.-  too  good  for  me,  but  I  must  say  that  the 
wagoners,  who  wouldn't  have  mp  eat  with  them,  live  better  than   you.' 

"  Between  us,  the  remark  shocked  me  a  little.     My  brother  answered  : 

"  'They  are  more  fatigued  than  I  am.' 

"  'No,'  responded  this  man  ;  'tliey  have  more  money.  You  arc  poor, 
T  cau  see.  Perhaps  you  are  not  a  curate  even.  Are  you  only  a  curate? 
Ah  I  ,if  G'^d  is  just,  you  well  deserve  to  be  a  curate.'  .  » 

"  'God  is  more  than  just,'  said  niy.brother. 

"  A  moment  after,  he  added  :       •    ♦ 

"  Olr.  Jean  Valjeau,  j-ou  are  going  to  Pontarlier  ?' 

*•'  'A  compulsory  journey.' 

''  I  am  prttty  sure  that  is  the  expression  the  man  used.  Then  he 
continued  : 

"  'I  must  be  ou  the  road  to-morrow  morning  by  day-break.  It  ia  a 
hard  journey.     If  the  nigiits  are  cold,  the  days  arc  warm.' 

"'You  are  going,'  said  my  brother  'to  a  fine  country.  During  the 
revolution,  when  my  family  was  ruined,  I  took  refuge  at  first  in  Fraoche- 
Comt^,  and  supported  myself  there  for  some  time  by  the  labor  of  mj 
hands.  There  1  found  plenty  of  work,  and  had  only  to  make  my  choice. 
There  are  paper-mills,  tanneries,  distilleries,  oil-factories,  large  clock- 
making  establishments,  steel  manufactories,  copper  foundries,  at  least 
twenty  iron  foundries,  four  of  which,  at  Jiods,  Chatillion,  Audiucourt, 
and  Beure,  are  very  large.' 

"I  think  I  am  not  mistaken,  and  that  these  are  the  names  that  mj 
brother  mentioned.     Then  he  broke  off  and  addressed  me  : 

"  'Dear  sister,  have  we  not  relatives  in  that  part  of  the  country':" 

"  I  answered  : 

"  'We  had ;  among  others,  Mr.  Lucenet,  who  was  captain  of  tlic  galea 
of  Pontarlier,  under  the  old  regime.' 

"  'Yes,'  replied  mj^JBrothcr,  'but  in  'O.S,  no  one  had  relatives  ;  evcrj 
one  depended  upon  his  hands.  I  laborcA.  They  have,  in  the  region  of 
Pontarlier,  when)  you  arc  going,  Mr.  Valjean,  a  business  which  i.s  quit« 
patriarchal  and  very  charming,  sister.  It  is  their  dairies,  which  tlTey 
call  /ruiticrex.' 

"  Then,  my  brother,  while-  helping  this  man  at  table,  explained  to 
him  in  detail  what  these /rjnV/e/Ts  were;  that  they  were  divided  into 
5 


M  LES    MISKRABLRS.  • 

hfo  kinJs  :  ihc  great  banm,  belonging  to  the  rich,  anJ  where  thoro  nre 
forty  <'r  fifty  cowh,  wliich  produce  from  Rcvcn  to  tight  thousand  theesi-fl 
during  thu  summer;  -and  the  u?-ociaU'(l  /nn'tiircs,  which  hch.iig  to  iho 
»o<.rftht'i»o  ronipiisf  the  peasants  jnh.ibitinu;  the  luoiintaius,  wlio  put 
lb<i'r  ti.ws  into  a  common  herd,  and  divide  the  prottcds.  They  hire  a 
obo<  .M'liKikrr,  whom  they  call  a  tjrtnin  ;  the  </ntrtn  receives  the  milk  of 
the  a^>^l•illtc•.s  three  times  a  day,  and  ui.t^.s  the  quauliiies  in  duplicate. 
Tow. mis  the  end  -of  April  the  dairy  woik  couiuicncfs,  and  almul  the 
liiddK!  of  June  the  clu'e.se-n)akiT,s  drive  iheir  cows  into  tlie  niuuiitains. 
-  "Tlic  man  bccTmc  nuimatcd  even  wljile  hi'  was  caiin^  My  brother 
Ijave  him  home  good  Mauvcs  wine,  whiili  he  doi-s  not  drink  himself, 
Wiu-c  ho  .«ays  it  is  too  dear.  My  broihor  ^uve  liiin  all  these  details 
with  that  easy  gaiety  which  you  know  is  pccoHar  to  liiiii,  intermiuLiling 
fH}«  w<TTds  with  complimcnt.s  for  me.  lie  dwelt  much  upon  the  s^ood 
oonilition  of  t^ie  grurin,  as  if  he  wiwhed  that  this  man  should  understand, 
Hiihout  advi.sing  him  directly,  and  abruptly,  that  it  wcuhi  be  an  asylum 
fbr  him.  One  thing  struck  me.  Tiiin  man  was  what  I  have  told  you. 
Well  :  my  brother^  during  the  supper,  and  during  the  entire  evening, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  words  about  .lesue,  when  he  entered,  did 
aot  say  a  word  which  could  r<call  to  th.s  man  who  he  himself  was,  nor 
Indicate  to  him  who  my  brother  wa.s.  It  wa.s  appaiently  a  fine  oceasinn 
to  pet  in  a  little  sermon,  and  to  .<sot  up  the  bishop  above  the  eonvfet,  in 
order  to  njake  ail  imprcs.'<io:i  upon  hi.s  mind  It  would,  perhaps,  have 
appeared  to  BOinc  to  be  a  duty,  hafing  this  unhappy  man  in  hand,  to 
feed  the  mind  at  the  same  tinle  with  the  body,  and  to  administer  re- 
prcid",  Heas(nicd  with  morality  and  advice,  or  at  least  a  little  pity 
accompanied  by  an  exhortation  to  conduct  hiuiself  better  in  future.  My 
brotlKT  asked  him  neither  his  country  nor  hi.s  hi.story  ;  for  his  crime 
Jay  in  his  history,  and  my  brnther  Bconud  to  av..id  every  thing  which 
COuM  recall  it  to  hiui.  At  one  time,  o.s  my  brothir  was  speaking  of  the 
tnountaineers  of  Pontarlier,  who  h:i\c.  n  j>lr<is(ivt  /ah'>r  nfiir  Inucni,  aiid 
wfi",  he  added,  are  happy,  iicrausr  thr//  mr  wnrnnt,  he  stopped  t-hort, 
fearing  there  might  have  been  in  this  jvoid,  which  had  escaped  hitp, 
fonulhing  which  could  wound  the  feelings  of  thi.s  man.  Upon  reflec- 
tion, I  iliink  I  understand  what  was  p:issing  i.n  my  brother's?  mind  Uo 
thou^'ht,  doubtloH.^,  that  this  man,  who  caMed  hiiiisolf  Jean  Valjcau,  had 
bis  wretchedness  too  constantly  before  his  mind  ;  that  it  was  best  not  to 
di^lrcss  him  by  referring  to  it,  and  to  make  him  think,  if* it  were  only 
for  :i,moment,  that  ho  was  a  common  person  like  any  one  else,  by  lreatin<4 
him  thus  ill  the  oitlinary  way  Is  not  this  really  understanding  charity  ? 
Jh  there  not,  .dear  madam,  something  tiuly  evangelical  in  this  delicacy, 
which  ab.'-tainH  from  aernKiiiizing,  moralizing  and  making  allusions,  ami 
is  it  uof  the  wisest  sympathy,  when  a  man  hns  a  suffering  point,  not  to 
touch  upon  it  at  all  '{  It  socuih  to  me  that  this  was  my  brother's  inmo.at 
thn\i;;ht.  At  any  rate,  all  I  can  say  is,  if  he  had  all  these  ideas,  he  did 
Hot  show  them  even  to  me  :  h«  was,  from  beginning  to  end,  the  same  aa 
On  other  evenings,  and  he  took  su[iper  with  this  Jean  Valjean  with  tho 
Bame  air  and  manner  that  he  would  have  supped  with  Mr.  Gedeon,  the 
Provost,  or  with  the  curate  of  the  pari.sh. 

"  Towards  the  end,  aa  we  were  at  desert,  some  one  pushed  the  door 
open.     It  was  mother  Gcrbaud  with  her  child  in  ber  arms.     My  brother 


.    PANTINE.  50 

kissed  tlic  child,  and  borrowed  fifteen  sons  that  IJiad  with  rae  to  give  to 
mother  Gerbaud.  Tlie  niiui,  during  this  tifne,  pafd  hut  little  atlention 
to  what  passed.  He  did  not  speak,  and  appeared  to  be  vcrj  tired.  The 
poor  ohl  lady  left,  and  ni}'  }»r<jt!ier  .said  grace,  after  which  he  turned 
toward  fhi.s  ninn  and  said  :  '  You  mu'-t  he  in  great  need  of  isleep.*  Mrs. 
!Mag]oire  quickly  reninvcd  the  cloth.  I  nnderstowd  that  wc  ought  to  re- 
tire in  order  that  this  traveller  might  hloep,  and  wc  both  went  to  our 
rooms.  However,  in  a  few  moment.s  aftorwardfi,  I  sent  Mrs  Magloire 
to  put  on  the  bed  of  this  man  a  roebuck  .skin  iVom  the  Black  Forest^ 
which  i.s  in  my  chamber.  The  nights  are  quito  cold,  and  this  skin  re- 
tains the  warmth.  It  is  a  pity  that  it  is  quite  old,  and  all  the  hair  ia 
pone.  My  brother  bought  it  when  he  was  in  Germany,  at  Totlingeiii 
near  thesourcc«i  of  the  Danube,  and  aleo  the  little  ivory-handled  kniftp, 
which  I  use  at  table. 

"  Mrs'.  Magloire  came  back  immediately,  we  said  our  [prayers  in  the 
parlor,  which  wc  use  as  a  drying-room,  and  their  we  retired  to  ou» 
chambers  without  saying  a  word."  » 

^       • 


TRANQUILITY. 


After  having  said  good-night  to  his  sister,  My  Lord  Bienveno  took  one 
of  the  silver  ctmdlesticks  froni  the  table,  handed  the  other  to  his  guest, 
and  .<!aid*fo  him  : 

"Sir,  I  will  show  you  to  your  room."  ' 

The  man  foll<)wo"d  him. 

As  may  have  been  understood,  from  what  has  been  said  before,  tbe 
house  was  so  arranged  that  one  could  reach  the  alcove,  in  the  oratory, 
oiil}'  b}'  passing  through  the  bishop's  sleeping  chamber.  Just  as  thej 
were-  pissing  fhrousih  this  rootn;  Mrs.  Magloire  was  putting  up  the  silver 
in  the  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  bo<.I.  It  was  the  la.st  thing  she  did 
every  niglit  before  going  to  bed. 

The  bishop  left  his  guest  in  the  alcove  oefore  a  clean,  white  bed. 
The  man  sat  down  the  candlestick  upon  a  small  table. 

"  Con>o,"  said  the  bishop,  "a  g{^od  night  s  rest  to  you  :  to-morrow 
morning  before  you  go,  you  shall  have  a  cup  of  warm  milk  from  our 
cows." 

"Thank  you,  Mr   Abb6,'  said  the    man. 

Scarcely  had  he  pronounced  these  words  of  peace,  when  snddenly  b« 
made  a  singubft-  motion  which  would  have  chilled  the  two  good  women 
of  the  house  with  horror,  had  they  witnessed  it.  Even  now  it  is  hardi 
for  us  to  understand  what  impulse  he  obeyed  at  that  moment.  Did  he 
intend  to  give  a  wnrning  or  to  throw  out  a  menace  ?  Or  wrb  be  simply 
obeying  a  sort  of  instinctive  impulse,  obscure  even  to  him.9elf?  II« 
turnf'd  abruptly  towards  the  old  man,  cros.<ed  his  arms,  and  caeting  a 
wild  look  upon  his  host,  exclaimf^d  in  a  harsh  voice: 

"  .\h,  now,  indeed  I  You  lodge  me  in  your  hoase,  as  near  joii  ft* 
that !" 


(}()  LES  mis6radles. 

•  He  decked  hlroaelX,  nnd  added,  with  a  laugh,  ia  which  there 'was 
•oaitthiDg  horrible  : 

"  lUve  you  reflected  upon  it  ?     Who  tells  you  that   I  am  not  a  niur- 

d.rer?" 

The  l.i-hop  responded  :     ' 

"(fod  will  take  cara  of  that." 

Then  with  pravity,  luovin-,'  his  lips  like  one  proving  or  talking  to 
himself,  he  raised  two  lingers  of  hi.s  -right  hand  and  blessed  the  man, 
who,  however,  did  not  Im)w  ;  and  withuut  turning  his  head  or  looking 
behind  liiin,  went  into  his  clian»ber. 

.  When  the  alcove  wa«  occupied,  a  heavy  serge  curtain  was  drawn  ia 
the  oratory,  concealing  the  altar.  IJcfore  this  curtain  the  bi.-liop  knelt 
•M  he  pxsgcd  out,  and  offered  a  -short  prayer. 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  walking  in  the  garden,  surrendering 
mind  and  soul  to  a  dreamy  cjutemplatiou  of  thxsc  grand  and  mysterious 
works  of  God,  which  night  makes  visible  t>>  the  eye. 

As  to  the  man,  he  w;^  so  completely  exhausted  that  he  did  not  even 
%v&\\  liiniself  of  the  clean  white  sheets;  he  blew  out  the  candle  with 
his  nos-tril,  after  the  manner  of  convicts,  and  fejl  on  the  bed,  dressed  as 
be  was,  into  a  sound  sleep. 

Midnight  struck  hs  the  bishop  came  back  to  his  chamber 

A  few  moments  afterwards  all  in  the  little  house  slept. 


VI. 

•  JF..\N    VAIJEAN. 

Towardrt  the  middle  of  the  night,  Jean  Valjoan  .-fwokc. 

Jean  Valjcan  wa.s  born  of  a  poor  peasant  family  of  Brie.  Tn  his 
CQildh(»od  he  had  not  been  taught  to  read  :  when  he  was  grown  up,  he 
chose  the  occupation  of  a  pruncr,  at  Faverolles.  His  m-other's  name 
wa-s  Jeanne  Mathieu  ;  his  father'.^,  Je;in  Valjean  or  Vlajeau,  probably  a 
Qickn:ini(»,  a  contraction  of    VoilA  Jmn.* 

Jiau  Valjean  was  of  a  tfJoughtful  disposition,  but  not  ead,  which  is 
characteristic  of  afTc'ct innate  natures.  Upon  the  whole,  however,  there 
waH  Honiething  torj.id  and  iiis-ignificaut,  in  the  appearance  at  least,  of 
Jean  Valjean.  He  had  lost  his  parcnta  when  very  young.  His  mother 
died  of  malpractice  in  a  milk-lever:  hi.x  father,  a  pruner  before  him, 
waw  killed  by  a  fall  from  a  tree.  Jean  Valjean.  now  had  but  one  rela- 
tive left,  his  hister,  a  widow  with  seven  children,  girls  and  boys.  ,  This 
bister  had  brought  up  Jean  A'aljtan,  and,  as  long  aft  her  husband 
lived,  hhe  had  taken  care  of  her  young  brother.  Her  husband  died, 
leaving  llio  eldest  of  these  children  eight,  the  youngest  one  year  old. 
Jean  Valjean  had  just  reached  his  twenty-fifth  year  :  he  took  the  father's 
pljiec,  and,  in  his  turn,  supported  the. bister  who  reared  him.  This  ho 
did  iKiturally,  as  a  duty,  and  even  with  a  .sort  of  moroscness  on  his  part. 
His  yduth  was  spent  in  rough  and  ill-recompensed  labor:  he  never  was 
known  to  have  a  sweetheart;  he  had  not  time  to  be  iu  love. 

At  night  he  came  in  weary,  and  ate  his  soup  without  saying  a  word. 


•PANTINE.  .  61 

While  be  was  eating,  \ns  sister,  iMire  Jeanne,  frequently  took  fioui  liis 
porringer  the  best  of  his  mciil ;  a  bit  of  meat,  a  slice  of  pork,  the  hear; 
of  the  cabbage,  to  give  to  one  of  hor  children.  He  went  on  eating,  his 
head  bent  down  nearly  into  the  soup,  his  long  hair  falling  over  his  dish,  ^ 
hiding  hi^;  eyes  ;  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  anything  that  was  doae..  Al 
Faverolles,  not  far  from  the  house  of  the  Valjeans,  there  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  a  fanner's  wife  named  INIarie  Claude;  the  Valjeau 
children,  who  were  always  fimished,  sometimes  we«t  in  their  mother's 
name  to  borrow  a  pint  of  milk,  which  they  would  drink  behind  a  hedge,' 
or  in  some  corner  of  the  lane,  snatching  away  the  pitcher  so  greedily 
one  from  another,  that  the  little  girls  would  spill  it  upon  their  aprons 
and  their  necks;  if  their  mother  had  known  of  this  exploit  she  would 
have  punished  the  delinquents  severely.  Jeau  Valjean,  rough  aad 
grumbler  as  he  was,  paid  Marie  Claude;  their  uiotlicr  never  knew  it-^ 
and  so  the  children  escaped. 

He  earned  in  the  pruning  season  eighteen  sous  a  day :  after  that  he 
hired  out  as  a  reaper,  workman,  teamster,  or  laborer.  He  did  whatever 
«he  cauld  find  to  do.  Hi-t  sister  worked  also,  but  what  could  she  do  with 
seven  littTo  children?  It  was  a  sad  group,  which  misery  ^\;as  grasping 
and  closing  upon,  little  by  little.  There  was  a  very  severe  winter ;  Jean 
had  no  work,  the  family  had  no  bread;  literally  no  bread,  and  teven 
children. 

One  Sunday  night,  Maubert  Isnbcau,  the  baker  on  the  Place  de 
I'Eglise,  ill  Faverolles,  was  just  going  to  bed  wheu  he  heard  a  vioknt 
blow  against  the  barred  window  of  his  .shop.  He  got  down  in  time  to 
see  an  arm  thrust  througli  the  aperfure  made  by  the  blow  of  a  fist  on 
the  glass.  •The  arm  seized  a  loaf  of  broad  and  took  it  out.  Isabeaa 
rushed  out;  the  thief  used  his  logs  valiantly;  Isabeaa  pursjjed  him  and 
caught  him.  The  thief  had  thrown  away  the  bread,  but  his  arm  was 
Btill  bleeding.     It  was  Jean  Valjean. 

All  that  happened  in  1795.  Jean  Valjean' was  brought  before  the 
tribunals  of  the  time  for  "  burglary  at  night,  in  an  inhabited  house,"  , 
He  had  a  gun  which  he  used  as  well  as  any  mnrksman  in  the  world,  and 
was  something  of  a  poacher,  which  hurt  him,  there  being  a  natural  pre- 
judice againf^t  poachers.  The  poachcj',  like  the  smuggler^  approache? 
very  nearly  to  the  brigand. 

Jean  Valjean  was  found  guilty  :  the  terms  of  the  Code  were  explicit; 
in  oui*  civilization  there  are  fearful  hours:  such  are  those  wheu  the 
criminRl  law  pronounces  shipwreck  upon  a  man.  What  a  nmurnful 
moment  is  that  in  which  society  withdraws  itself  and  gives  up  a  think- 
ing being  for  ever.  Jean  Valjean  was  sentenced  to  live  years  iu  th'3 
galleys. 

On  (he  22d  April,  1706,  there  was  announced  in  Paris  the  vict.  ry  of, 
Montenotte,  achieved  by  the  Commanding-General  of  the  Army  of  Italy, 
whom  th(!  message  of  the  Directory,  to  the  Five  Hundred^  of  the  second 
Floreal,  year  IV.,  called  K(mapartc;  that  same  day  a  great  chain  was 
riveted  at  the  Bicetre.  Jean  Valjean  was  a  part  of  this  chain.  An 
old  turnkey  of  the  prison,  now  nearly  ninety,  well  remembers  this  mis- 
erable man,  who  was  ironed  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  plinth  in  the  north 
angle  of  the  court.  Sitting  on  the  ground  like  the  rest,  he  sccifled  to 
comprehend  nothing  of  his  position,  except  its  horror:  probably  there 


(2  LES    MI6KRABLES. 

«••)  hiso  tuinglcd  with  the  vafsuc  ideas  of  a  poor  igujoraiat  man  a  uolion 
ih :.t  tlierc  waii  w.iiietbing  cxctssivc  in  the  j^ciinlty.  While  t\wy  were 
fri  h  htnvy  httmuier  ^irt/kcs  bchiud  bis  head  rivctiuji  the  bi»it  of  hiiii  iioa 
c  !i  I,  lie  waA  wct-ping.  The  (tars" cbuked  bis  wqid.«,  and  ho  only  suo- 
c<-<i';i.jin  Kayiug  I'loiu  time  it  time :  "/  teas  o  pruu'7  ot  l\ni  rulha." 
Then  hoLbiiig  ns  iic  was,  be  ruibod  hi^i  light  hand  and  lowered  it  seven 
liu  .H,  ah  if  lie  was  touthin;;  seven  heads  oi  uu((|ual  heigiif,  and  at  this 
gotuic  one  could  {zuess  that  whatever  be  bad  dune,  bad  bceu  to  feed 
•ud  elolhc  seven  little  children. 

He  nan  lukcD  tu  Tt>ul<)D,  at  which  place  he  had  arrived  after  a  jour- 
roy  of  (wcniy-seven  days,  on  a  cart,  the  chain  hlill  about  bis  neek.  At 
Toul  n,  be  was  drt^sed  in  u  red  blouse,  all  bis  pa»t  life  was  effaced,  eveo 
to  his  uaiuo.  lie  was  no  longer  Jean  Valjean  :  be  was  Number  24,001. 
"What  became  of  the  lister?  What  became^  of  the  pcven  children? 
"Who  troubled  bim,>^elf  about  that''  What  becomes  of  the  handful  of 
le«v»'(*  of  the  young  tree  whcu  ti  is  eawii  at  the  trunk  ? 

It  is  the  old  fitory.  Tb(:-ec  poor  little  lives,  these  creatures  of  God, 
honcrfoitb  witliout  huju^ort,  or  guide,  or.  asylum;  they  j)as«ed  away. 
»heuvcr  thauet'  led,  who  knows  even?  Kadi. took  a  differeirt  path,  it 
may  be,  and  Mink  little  by  little  into  the  chilling  daik  which  engulfn 
•olitaiy  dchtiiiies;  that  Hullen  glctoui  where  are  lost  so  many  ill  fated 
fcuu!-  in  (be  ponibro  advaoee  of  (he  human  race.  They  left  that  region; 
the  church  «.f  wliat  had  been  thi-ir  village  forgot  them  ;  the  stile  of  what 
liHil  l/ci-n  (lieii  field  forgot  them;  alter  a  few  years  in  the  galleys,  even 
JeAi  \'aljean  forgot  them.  In  that  heart,  in  which  there  had  been  a 
wound,  (hero  was  a  sear;  that  w.-t!)  all.  Lluring  the  time  he  was  at 
Toulon,  he  beard  but  ooue  of  bis  sister;  that  was,  I  think,  a^thc  end  of 
the  fiurth  j^ar  of  his  eonfineinent.  I  do  not  know  how  the  news  reaebe^d 
liini ;  bonic  one  who  had  known  him  at  home  had  seen  bis  sister.  She 
Xiws  in  I'aris,  living  in  a  poor  street  near  Saint  ^ulpicc,  the  liue  du 
Ceindrc  She  bad  with  her  but  one  child,  tbf  youngest,  a  little  boy. 
Vhiie  were  the  other  six?  She  did  not  know  herself,  perha|is.  Every 
tuorning  ^be  W(  nt  to  a  bindery,  No.  o  Kue  du  Siibot,.  where  she  was  ein- 
|)1  -ytd  as  n  folder  and  book-siilcber.  She  had  to  be  there  by  six  in  the 
•iturning,  long  before  the  dawn  in  the  winter.  In  (he  same  building 
with  (he  bindery  (hcri-  was  a  school,  where  she  sent  her  little  boy,  seven 

£cai«  old.  As  the  sch(Hd  did  not  o|.en  till  seven,  and  she  must  he  at 
er  work  nt  hfx,  her  b  y  hid  to  wail  in  the  yard  au  hour,  uirtil  tb« 
•cboul  opmid-  au  hour  of 'cold  and  darkness  in  the  winltr.  They 
would  not  111  (he  child  w.iit  iu  (he  bindery,  because  he  wa.s  trouble.^oine, 
they  s.iid  The  workmen,  as  they  passed  in  the  morning,  saw  the  poor 
little  f"  liow  s'lniclimi'S  sitting  on  the  pavement  uoddint:  with  wearincsS} 
and  ofifu,  sKvping  lu  (he  dark,  crou..bed  Jind  bent 'over  his  basket. 
When  it  rained,  un  old  woman,  (he  porlercss,  te»ok  pity  on  him  :  she  let 
l.'rn  come  into  lier  lo.lge,  the  furniture  of  whieh  wa.-»  only  a.  pallet  bed,  a 
•pinning  wheel  and  two  wooden  cb.iirbj  and  the  little  one  slept  theie  in 
%  c  friier,  hugging  the  cat  to  keep  himself  w:irm  Al  seven  o'clock  tho 
Aeho  .1  op.'ii«.-d  and  he  went  iu.  That  is  what  was  told  Jean  ^'aljean. 
It  w,i^  as  if  a  windviw  had  been  suddenly  opened,  looking  upon  the  des- 
Iniy  of  those  be  had  Ijved,  and  then  all  was  closevl  again,  and  he  heard 
•olhiu^  luore  forever.      Nothing  more  came  to  him;   he  had   not  seen 


PANTINE.  -  03 

them,  never  will  ho  see  them  agaiu  !  and  through  the  remainder  of  thia 
sad  history  we  Khali  not  meet  theni  again 

Near  the  end  of  this  fourth  year,  his  chance  of  lihorty"came  to  Jean 
Valjean.  His  comrades  helped  him  as  they  always  do  in  tliat  dreary 
place,  atrd  he  ^scapod.  Ho  wandered  two  days  in  freedom  throujih  th« 
fields;  if  it  is  freedom  to  be  hunted,  to  turn  your  head  each  mnnient, 
to  tremble  at  the  least  noise,  to  be  afraid  of  every  thing — of  the  siunk« 
of  a  chimney,  the  passing  of  a  man,  the  baying  of  a  dog.  the  gallup  q£ 
a  horse,  the  striking  of  a  cluck,  of  the  day  becauj?c  you  see,  and  of  th« 
night  because  you  do  not ;  of  tiie  road,  of"  the  path,  the  bush,  of  sleep. 
During  the  evening  of  the  second  day  ho  was  retaken;  he  had  neiihor 
eaten  nor  slept  for  thirty  six  himrs.  The  maritime  tribunal  ext'  tided 
his  sentence  three  years  for  this  attem^)!,  which  mnde  eight.  In  the 
pixth  year  his  turn  of  escape  came  again  ;  he  tried  it,  but  failed  again. 
'  He  did  ^ot  answer  at  roll-call,  and  the  alarni  cannon  was  fired  At 
ni'ifht  the  people  of  the  vicinity  di"-x*overcd  him  hidden  beneath  the  keal 
■of  a  vessel  on  the  stocks;  he  resisted  the  galley  guard  which  SLized  liiiia. 
Escape  nnd  resistance.  This  the  provisions  of  the  special  code  punished 
by  an  addition  of  five  years,  two  with  the  double  chain.  Thirteea 
years.  The  tenth  year  his  turn  came  round  again ;  he  made  another 
.attempt  with  no  better  success.  Three  .years  for  this  new  attempt. 
Sixtoeri  yeaj^.  And  finally,  I  fliink  it  was  in  the  thirteenth  year.  li» 
made  yet  another,  and  wis  retaken  after  an  absence  of  only  four  hiura. 
Three  years  for  these  four  hours.  Nineteen  years.  In  October,  LS15, 
ho  was  set  at  large;  ho  had  entered  iu  1700  for  having  bi»kcn  a  pan« 
of  glass,  and  taken  a  louf  of  bread. 

This  is  a  place  for  a  short  parenthesis.  This  is  the  sooond  time,  in 
his  stu(lies  on  the  penal  question  and  on  the  sentences  of  the- law,  that 
the  author  of  this  book  has  met  with  the  theft  of  a  loaf  of  bread  as  tb« 
starting  point  of  the  ruin  of  a  destiny.  Cbmle  (iueux  stole  a  loaf  of 
fcroad  ;  Jean  Valjean  stole  a  loaf  of  bre  id  ;  English  statistics  show  that 
in  London  starvation  is  the'immediato  cause  of  four  thefts  out  of  five. 

Jean  V:djean  entered  the  galleys  sobbing  and  shuddering:  he  went 
out-hardened;   he  entered  iu  despair:  he  went  aut  sullen. 

What  had  been  the  life  of  this  soul  ? 


VII. 

TUE   DEPTHS   OF   DESPAIR. 

Tict  us  endeavor  to  tell 

It  is  an  imperative  necessity  that  society  should  look  into  these  things; 
they  are  its  own  work. 

He  was,  as  wc  have  said,  ignorant  ;  but  he  was  not  imbecile.  Th« 
natural  light  was  enkindled  in  him.  Misfortune,  which  has  also  its 
illiunination,  added  lo  the  few  rays  that  he  had  in  his  mif.d.  Under  th« 
whip,  under  the  chain,  in  the  (cll,  in  fatigue,  under  the  burning  sun  of 
the  galleys,  upon  the  convict's  bed  of  plank,  he  turned  to  his  own  co»- 
ftciencc,  and  he  reflected. 


64  LBS   MISKRABLES. 

lie  coD»Ututc<I  liiinself  a  Irihiiiial. 

He  hc^nn  by  arraigning  hiius -If. 

He  recf'pnizcd  liiat  he  w:i8  not  an  innooont  man  unjirstly  p>inis.hod. 
He  «rknowlod}ri(l  that  he  had  comniitfcd  an  exirenre  and  a  bl.im:ible 
•cti'in  ;  that  the  loaf  pcrliaps  would  not  have  been  refused  hinf,  had  he 
ai>ked  for.  it ;» that  at  all  events  it  would  have  been  better  in  wiiit,  either- 
for  pi'v,  or  for  work  ;  lliat.  it  is  not  altogflher  an  unanswerable  reply  to 
gjy — "could  I  wait  when  I  w.is  hungry?"  (hat,  in  the  lipet  plaee,  it  is 
▼ery  rare  that  any  one  dies  of  actual  iiufiger  ;  and  that,  forlun  itely  or 
nnforlonatcly,  man  is  so  made  that  he  can  suiTer  long  and  niuih,  morally 
and  jpliysically,  without  dying;  that  he  jihouid,  therefore,  have  had  pa- 
tienc  ;   that  that  would  have  been  better  oven  for  those  poor  little  ones. 

Tlnni  he  asked  himself:  . 

If  he  were  the  ojily  one  who  hail  done  wrong  in  the  cn\irse  of  his 
faUd  history  ?  If,  in  the  first  plauo,  it  were  not  a  grievous  thitigi  that  he, 
a  workman,  should  have  been  in  want  of  work  ;  that  he,  an  industrious 
man,  should  have  lacked  bread.  If,  n)oreovcr,  the  /ault  having  been 
oommitled  and  avowed,  the  punishment  had  not  been  savairo  and  ex- 
0CJ>sivc.  If  the  penalty,  taken  in  connexion  with  it.'  successive  exten- 
sions for  hia  altempts  to  escape,  had  not  at  last  conic  to  be  a  sort  of.  put- 
rapj  of  the  stronger  on  the  weaker,  a  crime  of  .six-iety  towards  the  indi- 
vidual, a  crime  whieh  was  comruilted  afresh  every  day,  a  4U'ime  which 
bad  endured  for  nineteen  years. 

.   Thexe  questions  asked  and  decided^  he  coudeuincd  society  and  sen- 
tenced it.      • 

He  sentenced  it  to  his  hatred. 

He  made  it  responsible  for  the  doom  which  ho  had  nndersroae,  and 
promi.sed  hlm.'^clf  that  he,  purhaps,  would  nut.  hesitate  some  day  to  call 
It  to  an  account.  He  concluded,  in  short,  that  his  punishnjiut  was  not, 
really,  an  injustice,  but  that  beyond  all  doubt  it  was  an  ini(|uity. 

Anger  may  be  foolish  and  absurd,  and  one  may  be  irritated  when  in 
the  wrong;  but  a  man  never  feels  outraged  unless  in  some  respect  he  is 
at  bottom  right.     Jean  Valjean  felt  outraged. 

And  then,  human  society  had  done  him  nithing  but  injury  ;  never 
had  he  seen  any  thing  of  her,  but  this  wrathful  face  which  .she  calls 
juslic',  and  whieh  she  shows  to  those  whom  she  strikes  down.  No  man 
bad  ever  touched  him  but  to  brui>e  him.  All  his  contact  with  men  had 
been  by  blows.  Never,. since  his  infaiiQ^',  since  his  mother,  since  his 
sister,  never  had  he  bi-en  preete  I  with  a  fiifn<lly  word  or  a  kind  regard. 
Throii'^h  suffi  ring  on  suffering,  he  came  liltl^  by  little  to  the  conviction, 
that  life  was  a  w.ir;  and  that  in  that  war  he  was  the  vanijui^hed.  Ho 
had  no  weapon  but  his  hate.  He  resolved  to  sharpen  it  in  the  galley,", 
and  to  take  it  with  him  whew  he  wi  nt  out. 

There  was  at  Toulon  a  echoed  for  (he  prisoners,  conducted  by  ."omc 
not  very  skilful  friars,  where  the  most  essential  branches  were  taught  to 
aueh  of  these  poor  men  as  were  willing.  He  was  one  of  the  willing 
©DOS  Ho  went  to  school  at  forty  and  learned  to  read,  write  and  cipher. 
He  fi  It  that  to  increase  his  knowledge  was  to  strengthen  his  hatred. 
Under  ecrlaiu  cir<iumstance8,  instruction  and  enlightenment  may  serve 
M  rallying  points  for  evil. 

It  is  sad  to  tell;  but  after  having  tried  society,  which  had  caused  his 


'  FANTINB.  05 

misfortunes,  he  tried  Providence,  which  created  society,  and  condemned 
it  also. 

Thus,  during  those  nineteen  years  of  torture  and  slavery,  did  this  soul 
rise  and  fall  at  the  same  tinjc.  Light  entered  on  the  one  side,  and 
darkness  on  the  other. 

Jean  Valjean  was  not,  we  have  seen,  of  an 'evil  nature.  Ilis  heart 
was  still  rijrht  when  he  arrived  at  the  galjcys.  While  there  4ie  con- 
demned society,  and  felt  that  he  became  wicked  ;  lie  condemned  Provi- 
dence, ami  felt  that  ho  became  impious. 

It  is  dithL-ult  not  to  rcBcct  for  a  moment  hero. 

Was  that  state  of  miud  which  we  have  attempted  to  analyze  a.s  per- 
fectly clear  to  Jean  A'aljcan  as  we  have  tried  to  render  it  to  our  readers?. 
Did  Jean  A'aljean  distinctly  see,  after  their  formation,  and  had  he  dis- 
tinctly seen,  while  they  were  forming,  all  the  elements  of  which  his 
moral  misery  was  made  up?  Had  this  rude  and  unlettered  man  taken 
accurate  account  of  the  succession  of  ideas  by  which  he  had,  step  by 
step,  risen  and  fallen,  till  he  had  reached  that  mournful  plane  which  for 
so  many  years  ahead}'  had  marked  the  internal  horizon  of  his  mind? 
Had  he  a  clear  consciousness  of  all  that  was  pa.«snig  within  him,  and  of 
all  that  was  moving  him  ?  This  we  dare  not  affirm  ;  we  do  not,  in  fact, 
believe  it.  Jean  Valjean  was  too  ignorant,  even  after  so  much  ill  for- 
tune, for  nice  discrimination  in  these  niattcrs.  At  times  he  did  not 
ctcn  know  exactly  what  were  his  feelings.  Jean  V;djean  was  in  the 
dark;  he  sufferod  in  the  dark  ;  lie  hated  in  the  dark;  we*  might  say 
that  he  hat'^d  in  his  own  sight.  He  lived  cons^mtly  in  this  darkness, 
groping  blindly  and  ^  in  a  dream.  Only,  at  intervals,  there  broke 
over  him  suddenly,  ffomwithin  or  from  witV.ojt,  a  i-hock  of  anger,  an 
overflow  of  suffering,  a  O'jick  pallid  fhish  which  lit  up  his- whole  soul, 
and  showed  all  around  him,  before  and  behind,  in  the  glare  of  a  hideous 
Kght,  the  fearful  precipices  and  the  sombre  perspectives  of  his  fate. 

The  flash  passed  away ;  the  night  fell,  and  where  was  he?  He  Qo 
longer  knew. 

The  peculiarity  of  punishment  of  this  kind,  in  which  what  is  pitiless, 
that  is  to  sa}-,  wliat  is  brutalizing,  prediuuinates,  is  to  "transform  littlo 
b3''little,  by  a  slow  stupefaction,  a  man  into  an  animal,  sometimes  info  a 
■wild  beast.  Jean  Valjcan's  repeated  and  obstinate  attem'^ts  to  escape, 
are  enough  to  prove  that  such  is  the  s'range  cfibct  of  the  law  upon  a 
human  soul.  Jean  Valjean  had  renewed  these  attempts,  ^o  wholly  u.-e- 
less  and  foolish,  -as  often  as  an  opportunity  ofl^ered,  without  one  moment's 
thought  of  the  result,  or  of  expeiience  already  undergone.  He  escaped 
wildl}',  like  a  wolf  on  seeing  his  cage-door  o^en.  Instinct  said  to  him  : 
"Away!"  Keasnn  said  to  him:  "Stay!"  Bnl  before  a  temptation 
so  mighty,  K^ason  fle.d  ;  instinct  alone  remained.  The  beast  alone  was 
in  play.  When  ho  was  retaken,  the  new  severities  that  were  inflicted 
upon  hira  only  made  him  still  more  fierce. 

We  must  not  omit  one  circumstance,  w-liich  is,  that  in  physical 
strength  he  far  surpassed  all  the  other  inmates  of  the  pri>»oii.  At 
harciwork,  at  twisting  a  cable,  or  turning  a  windlass,  Jean  Valjean  waa 
equal  to  four  men.  He  would  sometimes'  lift  and  hold  enormous 
weights  on  hi.s  back,  and  would  occasionally  act  the  part  of  what  is 
called  ixjack,  or  what  was  called  in  old  French  an  oryutil,  whence  came 


GG  LBS    MISKRABLES.  ^ 

llic  natno,  wc  may  piy  l»y  tlio  w;iy,  of  the  Iluo  Mootorpncil  near  tho 
Hall-  M  of  I'arin.  'Hin  comrades  liail  nickuaiiud  liiiii  .J<an  tho  Jack. 
At  one  umc,  while  ihc  halcnnj  of  tlio  (Uty  Hall  of  T<>uh«ii  was  uiider- 
fr  ,\o<r  rcp.iirfi,  oik!  of  PugelV  iidiiiiriblc  far3-dlids,  which  support  the 
b:ilci«nv.  ^lipp^"^  from  its  pl.icc,  and  was  about  to  fall,  when  Jean  Val- 
joao,  wh )  happc'ued  to  be- there,  held  it  up  on  his  shoulder  till  the  work- 
tnni  caujc. 

His  suppleness  surpassed  his  strcn;ith.  Certain  convicts,  always 
platiuitig  i-st-apcs,  have  developed  a  veritable  science  of  strength  uni 
ekill  combined— the  Hcionco  of  ilic  uiu*cl«'s.  A  mysteri  an  .«)stc'ui  of 
statics  is  piMcti<cd  tliroughout.  daily  by  prisoners,  wh  t  are  tlcnialiy  en- 
vying; the  birds  iii:d  fli.  s.  To  scale  a  wall,  and  to  find  a  foot-hold  whero 
'you  could  hardly  sec  a  projection,  wis  play  for  Jean  N'aljcan.  (Ji^onan 
i»o^le  in  a  will,  with  the  teuMioii  of  his  back  and  his  knees,  with  elbows 
and  hands  brace  I  aguius^  the  rougli  face  of  the  stone,  he  would  ascend, 
as  if  by  magic,  to  a  third  story.  Somelimes  he  climbed  up  in  this  man-, 
ucr  t'l  the  loof  of  the  galleys. 

He  talked  but  little,  and  uevrr  laughed,  b'omc  extreme  emotion  was 
re(juircd  «o  draw  from  him,  once  or  twice  a  yoir,  tint  lugubritms  8ound 
of  the  convict,  which  is  like  the  echo  of  h  dein^m's  lau::h.  To  those 
who  paw  him,  he  seemed  to  bo  ab-orbcd  iu  continually  looking  upoo 
soiU'thing  terrible. 

He  was  absorbed,  in  fact. 

Through  the  diseased  perceptions  of  an  incomplotc  niturc,  and  a 
Hn,(jthered  inielligence^he  v:igucly  f.lt  that  a  nioitsirous  weight  was 
over  him.  In  that  pallid  and  sullen  sluulow  in  which  he  crawled,  whea- 
cver  he  turne<l  his  head  and  endeavored  to  raise  ms  eyes,  he  saw,  with 
niinglcd  rage  an  literror,  foniiiiig,  massing  aiitl  moniiting  up  out  of  view 
above  hi<n  with  honid  escarpments,  a  kind  of  fiightful  accuuuilation  of 
things,  (d'  law.s.  of  prejudices, .  (d'  men,  and  of  acts,  the  ouilines  of 
which  eseapcil  him,  the  weight  of  whieli  appalled  him,  and  wliijli  was 
uo  other  lliaii  that  prodigious  pyrami  t  that  we  cull  civilization.  Here 
nod  there  in  that  hhapeless  jind  crawling  miss,  sometimcg  near  at  hand, 
BUOi'Cliines  af.ir  olT,  and  upon  in  ^ece.>•^'ible  heighl.s,  ho  distinguislie  I  some 
proup,  some  detail  vividly  i;liar,  here  the  jailer  with  his  .-lati",  th"re  HiQ 
gendarme  w\v\\  his  sword,  yonder  the  mitred  arehbi.shop ;  and  on  high, 
iu  a  H  'rt  of  blaze  of  glory,  the  emperor  crowned  and  res[ikMident  It 
fcemed  to  him  that  ihe.-c  distant  splendors,  far  from  dis-ipaiiug  Ills 
uight,  tnudo  it  blacker  and  more  (L-aihly. 

In  such  a  ^ituatjou  Jean  Valjcan  mused,  anl  what  could  be  the  nii- 
ture  of  his  reflections  ?  ,  •        ' 

If  a  millet  Hctd  uidcr  a  oiillstoui  haJ  thoughts,  doubtless  it  would 
think  what  Jean  Valjean  thougl.t. 

All  these  things,  realities  fn'l  of  spectres,  phantasmagoria  fidl  of 
realitiiH,  had  at  lust  produced  within  him  a  condition  which  was  almost 
inexpl('^^ible 

.Suinetinie<  in  the  u)i<lst  of  his  work  in  the  galleys  ho  would  slop,  aud 
beg  n  to  think.  His  reason,  more  mature,  and-;  at  the  same  time,*i)er- 
turbcd  ui'ir.-  than  formerly,  would  revolt.  All  that  hail  Inppenea  to 
him  w.Hild  appear  abturil  ;  all  that  surrounded  him  would  appear  impos- 
hiblc.     He  would  »ay  to  himself :    "  it  is  a  dream."     lie  would  look  at 


FANTINE.  67 

tlis  jailer  standing  u  few  steps  from  him  ;  the  jiiiler  Wuuld  seem  to  be  a 
phantom  ;  nil  at  once  this  pliantom  would  give  him  a  blow  with  a  stick. 
"Vor  him  tlie  external  world  had  scarcely  an  existence.  It  would  be 
almost  true  to  say  that  for  Jean  Valjeau  there  was  no  sun,  no  beautiful 
summer  days,  no  radiant  sky,  no  fre!*liApril  dawn.  Some  dim  window 
light  was  all  that  shone  in  his  soul. 

To  sum  up,  iu  conclusion,  what  can  be  summed  up  and  reduced  to 
positive  results,  of  all  that  we  have  been  showing,  we  will  make  sure 
only  of  this,  that  in  the  course  of  nineteen  years,  Jian  Va!j<  an,  the  in- 
offensive pruncr  of  Favcrollos,  the  terrible  galley  slave  of  Toulon,  had 
become  cnpuble,  thanks  to  the  (niiniug  he  had  received  in  the  galleys, 
of  two  spfciea  of  crime;  first,  a  sudden,  unpremeditated  action,  full  of 
rashness,  all  instinct,  a  sort  of  reprisal  for  the  wrong  ho  had  suffered; 
secondly,  a  serious,  premeditated  act,  discusjsed  by  his  conscience,  and 
pondered  over  with  the  false  ideas  w'iiieh  such  a  fate  will  give  His 
preuieditations  passed  through  the  three  successive  phases  to  which  iMi- 
lures  of  a  certain  stamp  are  limited — reason,  will  and  obstinacy.  lie 
had  as  motives,  habitual  iVjdignation,  bitterness  of  soul,  a  deep  sense  of 
injuria  suffered, -a  re-action  even  against  the  good,  the  innocent,  and 
the  upright,  if  any  such  there  are.  '1  he  beginning  as  well  as  the  end  of 
all  his  thoughts  was  h.itied  of  human  law;  that  hatred  which,  if  it  bo 
not  checkeil  in  it.';  croutli  by  some  p.ovidential  event,  becomes,  in  a  cer- 
tain time,  hatred  cf  society,  then  hatred  of  the  human  race,  and  then 
liatred  of  crcaiiou,  and  reveals  itsilt  by  a  vague  and  incessant  desire  to 
injure  some  living  bein;?,  it  niatteus  not  who.  So,  the  passport  was  right 
wliieli  described  Jean  Valjcan  as  a  vrtjj  (fdiu/rrftus  man. 

Fnirn  year  to  year  this  soi\l  had  withered   more  and  more,  slowly,  but' 
fatally.      With  his  withered  heart,  he  had  a  dry  eye.      When  be  left  the 
gallevi?,  he  had  not  shed  a  tear  for  nineteen  years. 


YIII. 

NEW    GIUKFS. 

When  (he  lime  for  leaving  the  galhtya  came,  and  when  lliere  were 
pouudel  in  the  ears  of  Jean  Valjeau  the  strange  word,,-:  Yon  "re  fne  ! 
i\\i'.  mouKnt  seemed  improbable  and  unreal;  a  lay  of  living  liglit,  a  ray 
of  the  true  light  of  living  men,  sud  letily  penetrated  his  siul.  But  thi.s 
ray  fpiickly  faded  away  Jean  Valjcan  had  beeir  dazzled  with  the  idea 
of  liberty.  lie  bad  believed  in  «  new  life.  He  soon  saw  what  eort  of 
liber:y  that  is  wliicb  has  a  yellow  pas.>iport. 

.•\ijd  alnugVith  that  there  were  many  bitter  experiences.  lie  had 
palculatcd  that  his  .savings,  during  his  stay  at  the  galleys,  would  amount 
to  a  imndrcd  ancl  sevenly-one  francs.  It  is  proper  to  say  \\\-*l  he' had 
foigott(n  to  take  into  accouut  the  compulsory  rest  on  Sundays  and  h(di- 
d.iys,  which,  in  nineteen  years,  required  a  deduction  of  about  twenty-four 
i'ranus  However  that  might  be,  his  savintis  had  been  redu'-ed,  by  various 
local  charges,  to  the  sum  of  a  hundred  ami  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sous, 
which  wad  counted  out  to  him  on  his  departure. 


i; 


G8  LES    MISERABLES. 

He  understood  nolliing  of  this,  and  thought  himself  wronjred,  or,  to 
ppcak  plainly,  ruhlK-d, 

The  day  afuT  his  liberation,  he  saw  belore  the  door  of  an  orange 
flower  distillery  at  (Jnisse,  sonic  men  who  were  unloading  bags.  He 
offcPfd  bin  services.  They  were  ill -need  ol' help  and  accepted  them.  He 
«?1  at  work.  He  was  intelligent,  robust  and  bandy;  be  did  bis  best; 
the  foreman  appeared  to  be  satisfied  While  he  was  at  work,  a  geus- 
I'arnic  pas-'^cd,  noticed  him,  and  asked  for  his  papers.  He  was  com- 
>rlled  to  show  the  yellow  passport.  That  done,  Jean  Valjean  resumed 
is  work.  A  little  while  before,  be  had  asked  one  of  the  laborers  how 
UMich  they  were  paid  per  day  Tor  this  work,  and  the  rejily  was,  thirty 
fius.  At  night,  as  luv  was  obliged  to  have  the  town  next  moining,  ho 
went  to  the  foreman  of  tlie  dislillery,  and  a.>^ked  for  his  pay.  The  fore- 
man did  not  say  a  word,  bnt  handid  biiii  fifteen  son*  He  remonstrated. 
TIk^  n»in  replied  :  '^Thnt  is  ijood  fiiou;/h  /oryaii."  He  in>isted.  The 
f(^(  man  looked  him  in  the  eyes  and  s^iid  :   ^^  Louie  out  fur  the  lockup!" 

There  again  ho  thiught  himself  robbid. 

Society,  the  State,  in  rtdu<'ing  his  savings,  bad  robbed  bim  by  wliolc- 
Fale  Niiw  it  was  the  hirn  (d'  the  individual,  who  was  robbing  bim  by 
retail. 

Liberation  is  not  deliverance.  A  convict  may  leave  the  gidleys  be- 
hind, but  not  his  condemnation. 

Tiiis  was  what  befel  bim  at  Grasse.  We  have  seen  how  he  was 
received  at  D . 


IX. 

THE    M.\N    AWAKKS. 

As  the  cathedral  clock  struck  two,  Jean  Valjean  awoke. 

What  awakened  him  was,  too  good  a  bed.  For  nearly  twenty  years 
he  bad  not  s.'ept  in  a  bod,  and,  although  he  lia  1  not  undressed,  the  sen- 
Mlion  was  too  novel  nyt  to  disturb  bis  sleep. 

He  had  slept  something  more  than  four  hours.  His  fatigue  had 
parsed  away       He  was  not  accustomed  to  give  many  hours  to  npose. 

•  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  for  a  moment  into  the  ob.-^curily  about 
bim,  then  he  closed  them  to  go  to  sK>cp  again. 

When  uiary  diverse  Sensations  have  di.-turbed  the  day.  wlien  the  mind 
is  pre-oeiupied,  w«'  can  fall  asleep  once,  but  not  a  second  time.  S'eep 
comes  at  liist  njindi  more  roudily  than  it  comes  again.  Such  wis  the 
( ase  with  Jean  \'uljean.  He  could  not  get  to  sleep  again,  and  .so  lie 
Scgan  t(»  think. 

•  He  was  in  one  of  those  inoods  in  which  the  ideas  we  have  in  our 
minds  are  perturbed.  There  was  a  kintl  of  vague  ebb  and  How  in  his 
brain.  His  oldest  and  bis  latest  memories  floated  about  pcll-mf'!l,  and 
crossed  each  other  cMifuscdly,  losing  their  own  shapes,  swelling  beyf>nd 
measure,  then  disappearing  all  at  once,  as  if  in  u  muddy  and  troubled 
Stream.  iMany  thoughts  came  to  him,  but  there  was  one%hieh  conlin- 
ualljr  presented  itself,  aud  which   drove  away  all  others.     What  that 


•      FANTINE.  •  69 

thouglit  was  wc  sliuH  toll  direclly.  lie  had  .notiocJ  the  six  silver  plates 
and  the  large  ladle  that  Mrs   Magloirc  had  put  on  the  table. 

Those  six  silver  pjates  took  possession  of  hiui.  There  they  were, 
within  a  few  steps.  At  the  very  moment  that  he  passed  through  the 
middle  room  to  reach  the  one  he  was  now  in,  the  old  servant  was  pla(;;ing 
them  in  a  little  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  Ilc'had  marked  that 
cupboard  well  :  on  the  right,  coming  from  the  dining  room.  They  were 
solid,  and  old  silver.  JVith  the  big  ladle,  they  would  bring  at  least  two 
hundred  fiancs :  double  what  ho  had  got  i'or  nineteen  years'*  labor. 
True;  he  would  have  got  more  if  the  '\(jovernment"  had  not  "  fobbed " 
hini, 

Ilis  mind  wavered  a  whole  hour,  and  a  long  one,  in  fluctuation  and 
"in  struggle.  The  clock  struck  three.  He  opened  'his  eyes,  rose  up 
hastily  in  bed,  reached  out  his  arm  an<l  felt  his  haversack,  which  he 
had  put  into  the  corner  of  the  alcove,  then  he  thrust  out  his  legs  and 
placed  his  feet  on.  the  ground,  and  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 
seated  on  his  bed. 

He  remained  for  some  time  lost  in  theught  in  that  attitude,  which 
would  have  had  a  rather  ominous  look,  had  any  one  seen  him  there  in 
the  dusk — he  only  awake  in  the  slumbering  house.  All  j>t  once  he 
ptooped  down,  took  off  his  shoes,  and  put  them  softly  upon  the  mat  in 
front  of  the  bed,  then  he  resumed  hi.>  thinking  posture,  and  was  still 
again. 

In  that  hideous  meditation,  the  ideas,  which  we  have  been  pointing 
out,  troubled  his  brain  without  ceasing,  entered,  dejiaited,  returned,  and 
became  a  sort  of  weight  upon  him;  and  then  he  thought,  too,  he  knew 
not  why,  and  with  that  mechanical  obstinacy  that  belongs  to  reverie,  of 
a  convict  nanjod  1^'evet,  whom  he  had  known  iu  the  galleys,  and  whose 
trowsers  were  only  held  up  b}'  a  single  knit  cotton  suspender.  The 
checked  pattern  of  that  suspender  came  continually  before  his  mind. 

He  continued  in  this  situation,  and  would  perhaps  have  remained 
there  until  daybreak,  '*(  the  clock  had  not  struck  the  quarter  or  the  half- 
hour.     The  clock  seemed  to  say  to  him  :  "  Come  along  ! " 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  hesitated  for  a  moment  longer  and  listened^  all 
was  still  in  the  house ;  he  walked  straight  and  cautiously  towards  the 
window,  which  he  could  discern.  The  night  was  not  very  Jark  ;  there 
was  a  full  mooD,  across  which  large  clouds  were  driving  before  the  wind. 
This  produced  alternations  of  light  and  sliade,  out-of-doors  eclipses  and 
illuminations,  artd  in-doors  a  kind  of  glimmer.  This  glimmer,  enough 
to  enable  him  to  find  his  way,  changing  with  the  passing  clouds,  resem- 
bled that  sort  of  livid  light  which  falls  through  the  window  of  a  dungeon 
before  which  men  arc  passing  and  repa.'^sing.  On  reaching  the  window, 
Jeau  Valje.'in  examined  it.  It  had  no  bars,  opened  into  the  garden,  and 
was  fastened,  according  to  tbc  fashion  of  the  country,  with  a  little  wcdgo 
only.  He  opened  it;  but  as  the  cold,  keen  air  rushed  into  the  room,  he 
closed  it  again  immediately.  He  looked  into  the  gariien  with  that  ab- 
sorbed look  which  studies  rather  than  sees.  The  garden  was  inclosed 
with  a  white  wall,  quite  low,  and  readily  scaled.  ]>eyond,  against  the 
sky,  he  distinguished  the  top.?  of  trees  at  equal  distances  apart,  which 
showed  that  this  wall  separated  the  garden  from  an  avenue  or  a  lane 
planted  with  'trees. 


70*  LES    MISKRABLES. 

WIktj  lie  had  taken  lhi«  ob««ervation,  ho  turned  like  ri  tnan  whoso 
n)iii'l  is  made  tip,  went  to  his  alcove,  took  his  havor'^ack,  op.^ned  it, 
f'Pi'hled  in  i',  t<H)k  out  somcfhin;;  whieh  ho  laid  upon  the  boii,  ])ut  his 
'  '  into  one  of  his  pockots,  tiod  up  his  bundK>;  swunj;  it  upon  his 
h!i<.u'-lcrs,  put  on  his  cip,  and  pulK'd  -llic  vizor  down  over  his  eyes,  felt 
for  his  (.lick,  nnd  wen'  aud  put  it  in  tha  corner  of  the  window,  then  re- 
turned to  thi;  bed,  and  res'duudy  t«H>k  up  the  ohj-Kt  which  he  had  laid 
on  it.      It  Idoked  like  a  short  iron  bar,  pointer!  atop.**  end  like  a  spear. 

It  wuuM  Ii:ive  b(!en  hurd  to  distiiigui>h  in  the  dnrknoHS  for  what  use 
this  piece  of  iron  hud  been  iinde.  Could  it  he  a  lever?  Could  it  be  a 
cluhi'  . 

In  the  dny-tinie,  it  wf)uld  have  Soon  seen  to  bo  nothing  but  a  ntiner'g 
drill.  At  that  time,  the  convicts  were  somctiuics  iMnpl>y<'d  in  (|uarry-' 
in;r  stone  <>n  the  lij^h  liills  that  surround  Toulon,  and  they  nftcn  had 
njiners'  tools  in  their  posscs>ion.  .Miners'  drills  are  of  solid  iron,  termi- 
natin;jj  at  the  lower  end  in  a  point,  by  inoan--  -if  which  they  are  punk 
into  tlic  roek 

He  took  tlic  drill  in  hi.s  ri^'ht  hand,  and  lioldin;^  hi.s*  breath,  with 
stealthy  steps,  he  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  next  room,  which  was 
the  bixiiop's,  as  we  know.  Oh  reachio;;  the  door,  he  found  it  uulutchod. 
The  bishop  had  not  closed  it. 


X. 

Mil  AT    in:    DOES. 

Jean  Valjean  listened.     Not  a  .sqund. 

He  pushed  the  door. 

He  pushed  it  Ii;;htly  ^ith  the  end  of  his  fin;^'^r,  with  the  pfealtliy  nnd 
tiutorons  carefulness  of  a  cat.  Tlie  door  yiidtled  to  the  pre^j^ure  with  a 
ftilenf,  imperceptible  movement, -which  made  the  npcning  ii  little  wider. 

Hi'  w:iited  a  moment,  and  then  pu'<hcd  the  door  :ii;ain  more  boldly. 

It  yi(  IdeJ  gradually  and  sileiktly.  The  openiuj;  w:is  now  wide  enough 
for  him  to  pass  throuj:h  ;  but  there  Was  a  small  fable  near  the  door  which 
with  it  fonncfl  a  troublesonje  angle,  and  which  barred  the  entrance. 

Jean  Valjean  saw  the  obstacle.  At  all  hazard.^  the  opening  must  be- 
made  fttill  wider. 

He  CO  determined,  and  pushed  the  door  a  third  time,  harder  than 
before.  This  time  a  runty  hinge  suddenly  sent  out  iuto  the  darkness  a 
harsh  nnd  proloriured  creak. 

Jcan_V:iijean  shivero<i.  The  noise  of  this  hinge  .sounded  in  his  ears 
as  clear  ami  terrible  as  the  trumpet  of  the  ,^dginent  Day. 

In  the  fantastic  exaggeration  of  the  first  moment,  he  almost  imagined 
that  this  hinge  had  bt^oine  animate,  and  suddenly  endowi  d  with  a 
t<>rrihle  life;  and  that  it  was  barking  liko-a  dog  to  warn  evorybo<ly,  and 
rou'-e  the  sleepers. 

He  slopped,  sliuddering  and  distracted,  nnd  dropped  from  his  tip- 
toes to  his  lect.  He  felt  the  pulsjos  of  his  temples  beat  like  trip-ham- 
mers, and  it  appeared  to  hi:n  that  his  breath  oatne  from  bis  cheat  with 


FANTINE.  71 

the  roar  of  wind  from  fi  cavern.  It  sccme.l  impossible  tliat  (he  horriblo 
souDil  of*this  incoD.'id  hinge  had  not  shaken  the  whole  house  with  (ho 
shock  of  an  c!irth(juake :  the  door  pushed  by  him  had  takey  the  ahum, 
and  had  called  out;  the  old  man  wi  uld  arise;  the  two  old  vomen  wnuld 
sci'cam  ;  help  would  come;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  town  would  bo 
alive  with  it,  and  the  gens-d'armes  in  pursuit.  For  a  nioineiit  he  thought 
he  was  lost. 

He  stood  still,  petrified  like  the  pillar  of  ."alt,  net  darinjr  to  ptir.  Sonio 
miniites  pas.sed  The  door  was  wide  open  :  he  ventured  a  look  into  the 
room.  Nobbing  bad  moved  He  listened.  Nothing  was  stining  in  (ho 
house.      The  noise  of  the  rusty  hinge  had  waked  nobody. 

The  first  danger  was  over,  but  still  be  felt  witiiin  liim  a  frightful  tu- 
mult. Nevertheless  he  did  not  flinch.  Not  even  when  ho  thought  bo 
was  lost  had  he  flinclied.  His  ordy  thought  was  to  make  an  end  of  it 
quickly.      He  took  one  step  and  was  in  the  rooui. 

A  deep  calm  filled  the  cli  unber.  Here  and  there  indist-nct,  confused 
forms  could  be  distinguislied ;  whieh,  by  day,  were  papers  sea(tered  over 
a  table,  opon  folios,  books  piled  on  a  stool,  an  arm-chair  with  clothes  on 
it,  a  pri'c-DifU,  but  now  were  only  dark  corners  and  wbiiish  spots.  Jcau 
Valjean  advanced,  carefully  avoiding  the  furniture.  At  the  further  end 
of  the  room  he  could  hear  the  equal  and  qiiet-brcathing  of  (he  sleeping 
bisliop.  • 

Suddenly  he  stopped:  he  was  near  the  bod,  he  had  reached  it  sooner 
than  he  thought 

Nature  soilietinies  joins  her  effects  and  her  appearances  to  our  acts 
with  a  sort  of  serious  and  intelligent  appropriateness,  as  if  sbe  would 
compel  lis  to  reflect  For  nearly  a  half  hour  a  great  cloud  had  darkened" 
the  sky.  At  the  moment  when  Jean  Valjean  paused  T;.;et'ore  the  bed  tho 
cliuid  broke  as  if  purp'>si'|y,  and  a  ray  of  moonlight,  crossing  the  high 
window,  suddenly  lighted  u-p  the  bishop's  pnle  face.  He  slept  tran- 
quilly. IJe  was  almost  entirely  dressed,  though  in  bed,  on  account  of 
the  cold  nights  of  the  lower  Alps,  with  a  dark  woollen  garment  which 
covered  bis  arjns  to  the  wrists.  His  head  had  fallen  on  the  pillow  ia 
the  unstudied  attiude  of  slumber;  over  the  .«ide  of  (he  bed  hung  his 
hand,  ornamented  with  the  pastoral  ring,  and  which  h;id  done  so  many 
good  deeds,  so  many  pious  acts.  His  entire  coujitenancc  was  lit  up  with 
a  vague  cxpre.'-sion  of  contctit,  hope  and  happiness  I(  was  more  tlian  a 
Bmi'e  and  almost  a  radiance.  On  his  forehead  rested  the  inJesoril  able 
refl "ction  of  &n  unseen  light  Tho  souls  of  the  upright  in  sleep  have 
visions  r)f  a  in3'sterio.us  bc^iven. 

A  reflection  from  this  heaven  shone  upon  the  bishop. 

But  it  was  also  a  luminous  transparency,  for  this  heaven  was  within 
him  ;   this  heaven  was  hit?  conseie'.'.ce.  ^ 

At  the  instant  when  the  moonbeam  overlay,  so  to  speak,  (his  inward 
radiance,  (he  sleeping  bishop  appeared  as  if  in  a  halo  I'ut  it  was  very 
mild  and  veiled  in  an  ineffable  twilight.  The  moon  in  the  sky,  nature 
drowsing,  the  garden  without  a  pulse,  (he  qui«  t  hiii.sp,  the  hour,  tho 
moment,  the  silence,  added  something  strangely  solemn  and  unutterable 
to  the  vene.rable  repose  of  this  man,  and  enveloped  bis  white  locks  and 
his  clo.sed  eyes  with  a  serene  and  majestic  gb»ry,  (bi.<»  face  whure  all  waji 
hope  and  confidence — {his  old  man's  i»cad  and  infant's  sluiuber.       , 


72  LES  miSerables. 

There  was  somcthiDg  of  diviuity  almost  in  this  man,  thus  uncon- 
6ciovi>l}'  aupust.  • 

Jc4in  Vali«  au  was  in  the  shadow  with  the  iron  drill  in  his  hand,  erect, 
tnotionloM^,  icrrificd,  nt  this  r;i<liant  ligurc.  lie  had  never  seen  anything 
couiparabic  lo  it.  This  confidence  filled  liini  witli  fear.  Tlic  moral 
woild  has  no  greater  ppectaclc  than  this:  a  trouhled  and  restless  con- 
science on  the  Verge  of  committing  an  evil  Jecd,  couitemplatiug  the 
sleep  of  a  good  man. 

Tliis  f-lcep  in  this  solitude,  with  a  neighbor  such  as  he,  contained  a 
touch  uf  the  sublime',  which  he  felt,  vaguely,  but  powerfully. 

None  could  have  tuld  what  was  within  liira,  not  evc\^  hin'iself.  To 
attempt  to  realize  it,  tJic  utmost  violence  must  be  imagined  in  the  p*e- 
Fencc  of  the  most  extreme  mildness.  In  his  face  nothing  could  be  dis- 
tinguislicd  with  certainty..  It  was  a  .«ort  of  haggard  astoni-shmcnt.  He 
saw  it;  that  was  all.  But  what  were  his  thoughtoy  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  guc^a.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  moved  and  agitated. 
]Jut  of  what  nature  was  this  emotion  ? 

He  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  the  old  man.  The  only  thing  which 
was  plain  from  his  attitude  and  his  countenance  was  a  strange  indeci.^ion. 
You  would  have  said  he  was  hesitating  between  two  realms,  that  of  the 
doomed  and  that  of  the  suved.  He  appeared  ready  cither  to  cleave  this 
skull,  or  to  kiss  this  hand.         .  • 

In  a  few  moments,  he  raised  hi.>j  left  hand  slowly  to  his  forehead  and 
took  off  his  hat;  then,  letting  his  hand  fall  with  the  same  slowness,  Jean 
Valje^in  resumed  .4iis  contemplations,  his  cap  in  his  left  hand,  his  club 
in  his  ri;:lit,  and  his  hair  bristling  on  His  fierce-looking  head 

Under  this  fiightrul^azc  the  bish  'p  still  slept  in  {trofoundest  peace. 

The  crucifix  above  the  mantel-piece  was  dimly  visible  in  the  moon- 
light, apparently  extending  its  arms  towards  both,  with  a  benediction  for 
the  one  and  a  pardon  for  the  other. 

Suddenly  Jtan  Valjcau  put  on  his  cap,  then  pas.«ed  quickly,  without 
looking  at  the  bishop,  along  the  bed,  straight  to  the  cupboard  winch  ho 
perceived  near  its  head;  he  rai.-iod  the  drill  to  force  the  lock;  the  key 
was  in  it ;  he  opened  it  ;  the  lirst  thing  he  saw  was  the  basket  of  silver, 
he  took  it,  cros.sed  I  he  room  with  hasty  stride,  careless  of  noiso,  reached 
fhe  door,  entered  the  oratory,  took  his  stick,  stepped  out,  put  the  silver 
in  his  knapsack,  threw  away  the  basket,  ran  aiios:  the  garden,  leaped 
over  the  wall  like  u  tiger,  uud  fled.    . 


XL 

THK   BISHOP   AT   WORK. 

The  next  day  at  t-unrise,  my  lord  Hienvenu  was  walking  in  the  gar- 
den, Mrs.  Magloire  ran  towards  him  (juite  beside  lierself 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,"  cried  she,  docs  your  greatness  know  where  the 
silver  basket  \if" 

"  Ves,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  (lod  be  praised  I"  said  she;  "I  did  not  know  what  had  become 
of  it." 


FANTINE.  78 

The  bishop  had  just  found  the  basket  on  a  flower-bed.  He  gave  it  to 
Mrs.  Magloire,  and  said  :  "  There  it  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  she;   "  but  there  i,s  nothing  in  it.     The  silver?" 

"Ah  !"  said  fhc  bishop,  "it  is  the  silver  then  that  troubles  you.  I 
do  not  know  where  that  is." 

"  Good  heavens  !  it  is  stolen.    That  man  who  came  last  night  stole  it." 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  with  all  the  agility  of  which  her  a^e 
was  capable,  Mrs.  Muglcire  ran  to  the  oratory,  went  into  the  alcove,  and 
came  back  to  the  bishop.  The  bishop  was  bending  with  some  sadness 
over  a  cochlearia  des  Guillons,  which  the  basket  had  broken  in  falling, 
lie  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Magloirc's  cr}'. : 

"  My  lord,  the  man  is  gone  !  the  silver  is  stolen  !"  _ 

While  she  was  uttering  this  exclamation,  her  eyofl  fell  on  an  angle  of 
the  garden  where  she  saw  traces  of  an  escalade.  A  capstone  of  the  staII 
had  been  thrown  down.  , 

"See,  there  is  w^iere  he  got  out;  ho  jumped  into  Cochefilet  lane.  The 
abominable  f«llow  !  he  has  sdSlon  our  silver  !" 

.    The  bishop  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  raising  his  serious  eyes,  he 
sail!  mildly  to  Mrs.  Magloire  :       .  . 

"Now,  first,  did  this  silver  belong  to  us?" 

Mrs.  Magloire  "did  not  answer.  After  a  moment,  the  bishop  con- 
tinued :  ' 

"Mrs.  Magloire,  1  Have  for  a  long  time  wrongfully  withheld  this 
silver;  it  belonged  to  the  poor.  "Who  was  this  man?  A  poor  man 
evidently."       '     * 

"Alas!  alas!"  returned  Mrs.  Magloire.  "It  is -not  on  my  account 
or  Miss  Baptistine's;  it  is  all  the  same  to  ift.  But  it  is  yours,  my  lord. 
What  is  my  lord  going  to  cat  from  now  ?"■ 

The  bishop  looked  at  her  with  amazement  :  • 

"  How  so  !  have  we  no  tin  plates  ?  " 

Mrs.  Magloire  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Tin  smells." 

"Well,  then,  iron  plates." 

Mrs.  Magloire  made  an  expressive  gesture. 

"  Iron  tastes." 

"Well,"  said  the  bishop,  "tlien,  wooden  plates." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  breakfasting  at  the  same  table  at  which  Jean 
Valjean  sat  the  night  before.  While  breakfasting,  My  Lord  Bienvenu 
pleasantly  remarked  to  bis  sister,  who  said  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Magloire, 
who  was  grumbling  to  herself,  that  there  was  really  no  need  even  of  a 
wooden  spoon  or  fork  to  dip  a  piece  of  bread  into  a  cup  of  milk." 

"Was  there  ever  such  ap  idea?"  said  Mrs.  Magloire  to  herself,  as 
she  went  backwards  and  forwards,  "to  take  in  a  man  like  that,  and  to 
give  him  a  bed  beside  him ;  and  yet  what  a  blessing  it  was  that  he  did 
nothing  but  steal !  Oh,  my  stars  \  it  nuikes  the  chills  run  over  me  whoa 
•I  think  of  it!" 

Just  as  the  brother  and  si-stcr  were  rising  from  the  table,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  bishop. 

The  do6r  opened.     A  strange,  fierce  group  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
6 


74  LE3    MTsfiRABLES. 

« 
Three  meh  wire  holding  a  fourth  by  the  collar.     The  lliroc  men  were 
gendarmes;   tlie  f^«urtli  Joan  Vnljoan. 

A  bri"Bdier  "f  Rond:»rmos,  who  appeared  to  head  the  firoup,  was  near 
the  door?     He  ndvnncod  towards  the  bishop,  giving  a"  military  salute. 

"  My  lord,"  said  he — 

•At  this  word  Jean  Valjean,  who  was  pullcn  and  seemed  lentirely  ca*t 
down,  raised  his  head  with  a  stupefiod  air — 

"  My  lord  !"  he  murmured,  "  then  it  is  not  the  ctiralo  I " 

**  Silence  I  "  said  a  gendarme  ;   "  it  i.s  my  lord,  the  bishop." 

In  the  meantime  l^Iy  Lord  liienvenu  had  approached  as  quickly  a.s  hi^ 
great  age  permitted  : 

"Ah,  t!iofe  you  arc!"  siid  he,  looking  towards  Jean  A''aljoan ;  "1 
•m  glad  to  see  yoif.  l?ut  I  pave  you  the  candleslioks  also,' which  arc 
Htlvcr  like  the  rest,  and  would  bring  two  hundred  francs.  WJiy.did  you 
not  take  thoin  along  with  your  plates?" 

Jean  Valjean  opened  hi.s  eyes,  and  lo^cd  at  the  "bishop  with  an.  cx- 
prcBsion  which  no  human  tongue  could  dc?crihc. 

^'  My  lord,"  paid  the  briga<lior,  '•  then  what  this  man  said  was  true  ? 
Wc  met  him.  He  was  going  like  a  man  who  was  running  away,  and 
we  arrested  him  in  order  to  sec.      He  had  this  silver."  • 

"And  he  told  you,"  interrupted  the  bishop,  with  a  smile-,  "that  it 
had  been 'given  him  by  a  good  old  prie8t  with  whom  he  had  passed  the 
niglit  I 'ece  it  ftll.  And  you  brought  him  back  here?  It  is  all  a 
mistake"  « 

"  If  that  is  so,"  said  the  brigadier,  "we  can  let  hira  go." 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  bishop. 

The  gendarmes  released  Jean  Valjean,  who  shrank  back — 

"Js  it  true  that  they  let  me  go?"  he  said  in  a  voice  almost  inarticu- 
la(e,  as  if  he  were  speaking  in  his  sleep. 

"Yes.!  you  can  go.     Do  you  not  understand?"  said  a  gendarme. 

"  My  friend,' '  said  the  bishop,  "  before  you  go  away,  here  arc  your 
candlesticks;   take  them." 

He  went  to  the  mantel-piece,  took  the  two  randlesticks,  and  brought 
them  to  Jean  Valjean.  The  two  women  beheld  the  action  without  a 
word,  or  gesture,  or  look,  that  might  disturb  the  bishop. 

Jean  Valjean  was  trembling  in  every  limb.  He  took  the  two  candle- 
flticks  mechimieally  and  with  a  wild  appearance. 

"Now,"  Huid  the  bishop,  "go  in  peace.  IJy  the  way,  my  friend,  when 
you  come  again,  j'ou  need  not  eomo  through  the  garden.  You  can  always 
come  in  and  go  out  by  the  front  door.  It  is  cIo.sod  only  wilii  a  latch, 
dav  or  night." 

Then  turning  to  the  gendarmes,  he  .said  : 

"Gentl.'men,  you  can  retire."     The  gendarmes  withdrew. 

Jean  Valjean  felt  like  a  man  who  is  just  about  to  faint. 
*    The  bishop  approached  him,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Forget  not,  never  forget  that  you  hava  promised  mo  to  use  this  silver 
to  become  an  honest  man." 

Jean  Valjean,  who  had  no  recollection  of  this  promise,  stood  con- 
founded. The  bishop  had  laid  much  stress  upon  tl^csc  words  as  he 
uttered  them.      He  continued,  solemnly  : 

"  Jcau  Vuljean,  my  brother,  you  belong  no  longer  to  evil,  but  to  good. 


FANTINE.  75 


It  is  your  soul  that  I  am  baying  for  you.     I  withdraw  it  from  dark 
thouglits  and  from  the  spirit  of  perdition,  and  I  give  it  to  God ! " 


XII. 

PETIT    OERVAIS. 

Jenu  Valjean  went  out  of  the  city  as  if  he  were  escaping.  lie  made 
all  hcstc  to  got  into  the  open  country,  taking  the  first  lanes  and  by-patha 
that  offered,  without  noticing  that  he  was  every  moment  retracing  hia 
steps.  He  wandered  thus  all  the  mcfrning.  He  had  eaten  nothing,  but 
he  felt  no  hunger.  ^  He  was  the  prey  of  a  multitude  of  new  sensations. 
He  felt  somewhat  angry,  he  knew  not  against  whom.  He  could  not 
have  told  whether  he  were  touched  or  humiliated.  There  came  over 
him,  at  times,  a  strange  relenting  which  he  struggled  with,  and  to  whicli 
he  opposed  the  hardening  of  his  past  twenty  years.  This  condition 
wearied  him.  He  saw,  with  disquietude,  shaken  within  him  that  species 
of  frightful  calm  which  the  injustice  of  his  fate  had  given  him.  He 
asked  himself  what  should  replace  it.  At  times  he  would  really  have 
liked  better  to  be  in  prison  with  the  geudarnTes,  and  that  things  had  not 
happened  thus;  that  would  have  given  him  less  agitation.  Although 
the  season  was  well  advanced,  there  were  yet  here  and  there  a  few  late 
flowers  in  the  hedges,  the  odor  of  which,  as  it  met  him  in  his  walk,  re- 
called the  memories  of  his  childhood.  These  memories  were  almost 
insupportable,  it  was  so  long  since  they  had  occurred  to  him.  - 

Unspeakable  thoughts  thus  gathered  in  his  mind  the  whole  day. 

As  the  sun  was  .sinking  towards  the  l^rizon,  lengthening  the  sliadow 
on  the  ground  of  the  smallest  pebble,  J'ean  Valjean  was  seated  behind  ik 
thicket  in  a  large  reddi.sh  plain,  an  absolute  desert.  There  was  no 
horizon  but  the  Alps.     Not  even  the  steeple  of  a  village  church.     Jean 

Valjean  might  have  been  three  leagues -from  D .     A  by-path,  which 

crcsscd  the  plain,  passed  a  few  steps  from  the  thicket. 

-  In  the  midst  of  this  meditation,  which  would  have  heightened  not  a 
little  the  frightful  effect  of  his  rags  to  any  one  who  might  have  met  him, 
he  heard  a  joyous  sound. 

He  turned  his  head,  and  saw  coming  along  the  path  a  little  Savoyard, 
a  dozen  years  old,  singing,  v'th  his  hurdygurdv  at  his  side  and  his  mar- 
mot box  on -his  back. 

One  of  those  pleasant  and  gay  youngsters  who  go  from  place  to  place, 

with  their  knees  sfickinc  through  their  trowsers. 

•  ■  111 

Always  singing,  the  boy  stopped   from   time  to  time,  and   pla3''oa  at 

tossing.up  some  pieces  of  money  that  he  had  in  his  hand,  probably  his 

whole  fortune.     Among  them  there  was  o»e  forty-sous  piece. 

The  boy  stopped  by  the  side  of  the  thicket  without  seeing  Jean  Val- 
jean, and  tossed  up  his  handful  of  sous ;  uitlil  tliis  time  he  had  skilfully 
caught  the  whole  of  them  upon  the  back  of  his  hand. 

This  time  the  forty-sous  piece  escaped  him,  and  rolled  towards  the 
thicket,  near  Jean  Valjean. 


76  LES   MISKRABLES. 

Jean  Valjetn  put  his  fout  uport  it. 

The  boy,  however,  Lad  followed  the  piece  with  his  eye,  and  had  seen 
where  it  went.  ^  '  . 

He  was  Dol  frightened,  and  walked  straif:hf  to  the  man. 

It  woB  an  entirely  solitary  place.  Far  as  the  eye  coiild  reach,  there 
was  no  one  on  the  plain  oi  in  the  path.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but 
the  faint  cries  of  a  flock  of  birds  of  passage,  that  were  flying  across  the 
fcky  at  an  immense  height.  •  The  child  turned  his  back  to  the  sun,  which 
made  his  hair  like  threads  of  gold,  and  flu.shcd  the  savage  face  of  Jeair 
Valjoan  with  a  lurid  glow. 

"Sir,"  said  the  little  Savoyard,  with  that  childi.«h  conGdcncc  which  is 
ciado  up' of  ignorance  and  innoceuce,  ."my  piece?"  * 

"  What  is  your  name  'f  "  .said  Jean  A'aljean. 

"  Petit  Gcrvais,"  sir. 

"  Get  out,"  said  Jean  Valjcan. 

"Sir,"  continued  the  hoy,  "give  mcmy  piece." 

Jean  dropped  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

The  child  began  Jigain  : 

"My  piece,  .sir!" 

Jean  Valjean's  eye  remained  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"My  piece  !"  exclaimed' the  boy,  "my  white  piece  I  my  silver  I" 

Jcau  Valjean  did  not  appear  lo  understand.  The  boy  took  him  by 
the  collar  6f  his  blouse  an'd  shook  him.  And  at  the  same  time  he  made 
tfn.  cQ'ort  to  move  the  big,  iron-soled  shoe  which  was  placed  upon  his 
treasure. 

."I  want  my  piece  I  "   my  forty-sous  piece  !  " 

The  child  began  to  cry.  Jean  Valjcau"  raised  his  head.  He  still  kept 
Lis  seat.  His  look  was  troubled.  He  looked  upon  the  boy  with  an  aij 
of  wonder,  then  reached  out  his  hand  towards  his  stick,  and  exclaimed, 
ia  a  terrible  voice ;   "  AVho  inhere  ?  " 

.  "  Me,  sir,"  answered  the  boy.-  "  Petit  Gcrvais  I  mc  I  me  !  give  me 
nr.y  forty-sous,  if  you  please  I  Take  away  your  foot,  sir,  if  you  please  !  " 
Then  becoming  angry,  .«inall  as  he  was,  and  almost  threatening  : 

"Come,  now,  will  you  take  away  your  foot?  Why  don't  you  take 
away  your  fout '!  " 

"Ah!  you  hero  yet!"  said  Jean  Valjean,  and  ri.«ing  hastily  to  Lis 
foct,  without  releasing  the  piece  of  money,  he  added:  "You'd  better 
take  cure  of  yojirbclfl  ' 

The  b^y  looked  at  him  in  terror,  then  began  to  tremble  from  head  to 
food,  and,  after  a  few  seconds  of  stupor,  took  to  flight  and  ran  with  all 
hi.s  might,  without  daring  to  turn  his  head  or  to  utter  a  cry. 

At  a  little  distance,  however,  he  stopped  for  want  of  breath,  and  Jean* 
Valjean,  in  his  reverie,  heard  him  sobbing. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  boy  was  gone. 

The  Bun  had  gone  down.  • 

The  shadows  were  deepening  around  Jean  Valjean.  He  had  not  eaten 
during  tin;  day;   probably  he  had  some  fever. 

He  had  remained  standing,  and  had  not  changed  his  attitude  since  the 
child  fled.  His  breathing  was  at  long  and  unequal  intervals.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  spot  ten  or  twelve  steps  before  him,  and  seemed  to  he 
studying   with   profound  attention  the   form  of  an   old   piece   of  blue 


FANTINE.  7T 

crockery  that  was  lyTng  in  the  grass.  All  at  once  he  shivered ;  he  be- 
gan to  feel  the  cold  uight  air. 

He  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  forehead,  sought  mechanically  to  fold 
and  button  his  blouse  around  hiiu,  stepped  forward  and  stooped  to  pick 
up  his  stick. 

At  that  instant  he  perceived  the  foi:ty-Pou3  piece  which  his  foot  had 
half  buried  in  the  ground,  and  wliich  glistened  among  the  pebbles.  It 
was  like  an  electric  shock.  "What  is  that?"  said  he,  between  his 
teeth.  He  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  then  stopped,  without  the  power  to 
withdraw  his  gaze  from  this  point,  which  his  foot  had  covered  Ihc  instant 
Dcfore,  as  if  the  tiding  that  glistened  there  in  the  obscurity  had  been  an 
open  eye  fixed  upon  him. 

A^ter  a  few  "luinutes,  he  sprang  convulsively  towards  tJie  piece  oS 
money,  seized  it,  and,  rising,  looked  away  over  the  plain,  straining  hia 
eyes  towards  all  points  of  the  horizon,  standing  and  trembling  like  a 
fright(ijicd  deer  which  is  seeking  a»  place  of  refuge. 

He  saw  nothing.  Night  was  falling,  the  plain  was  cold  and  bare, 
thick  purple  mist^wcre  rising  in  the  glimmering  twilight. 

He  said,  "Oh!"  and  began  to  walk  rapidly  in  the  direction  in  which 
the  child  had  gone.  After  some  thirty  steps,  he  stopped,  looked  about, 
and  saw  nothing. 

Then  he  called  with  all  his  might :  '/  Petit  Gervais  !  Petit  Gervals  I" 

And  then  he  listened. 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  country  was  desolate  and  gloomy.  On  all  sides  was  space.  There 
was  nothing  about  him  but  a  shadow  in  which, his  gaze  was  lost,  and  a 
silejice  in  which  his  voice  was  lost. 

A  biting  norther  was  blowing,  which  gave  a  kind  of  dismal  life  to 
every  thing  about  him.  The  bushes  shook  their  little  thin  arms  with  aa 
incredible  fury.  One  would  have  said  that  they  were  threatening  and 
pursuing  somebody. 

He  began  to  walk  again,  then  quickened  his  pace  to  a  run,  and  from 
time  to  time  stopped  and  called  out  in  that  solitude,  in  a  mo.st  desolate 
and  terrible  voice : 

"  Petit  Gervais  !  Petit  Gervais  !  " 

Surely,  if  the  child  had  heard  him,  he  would  have  been  frightened, 
and  would  have  hid  himself  But  doubtless  the  boy  was  already  far 
away. 

He  met  a  priest  on  horseback.     He  went  up  to  him  and  said  : 

"  Mr.  Curate,  have  you  seen  a  child  go  by?" 

"No,"  said  the  priest.  • 

"Petit  Gervai^  was  his  nftme  ?  "  * 

"  I  have  seen  nobody." 

He  took  two  five-franc  pieces  from  his  bag,  and  gave  them  to  the 
priest, 

"  Mr.  Ourate,  this  is  for  your  f>oor.  Mr.  Curate,  he  is  a  little  fellow^ 
about  ten  years  old,  with  a  marmot,  I  think,  and  a  hurdygurdy.  Ift 
went  this  way.     One  of  these  Savoyards,  you  know?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  Petit  Gervais  ?  is  his  vill^  near  here  ?  can  you  tell  me  ?  " 


78  LRS    MI5ERABLES. 

"  If  it  bo  as  yciu  say,  my  friend,  the  little  fellow  i^a  foreigner.  They 
roam  about  this  country.     Nobody  knows  them." 

Jean  ^'aljcan  lia.stily  took  out  two  more  live-franc  piece.<5,  and  gave 
Ibem  to  the  priest. 

"  For  your  poor,"  said  he. 
Then  he  added  wildly  : 

"  Mr.  Curate,  have  me  arretted.  ^  I  am  a  robber." 
The  priest  put  .«pur.s  to  his  horse,  and  fled  in  great  fear. 
Jean  V'aljeaii  began  to  ruu  agaiu  in  the  dircclioa  which  he  had  first 
L.kcn.         ^ 

lie  went  on  in  this  wise,  for  a  considerable  distance,  looking  around, 
calliiip;  and  shouting,  but  met  nobody  else.  Two  or  three  limes,  he  left 
the  path  to*K)ok  at  what  nccmcd  to  be  somebody  lying  down  or  crouch- 
ing; it  was  only  low  bu.«hcs  or  rocks.  Finally,  at  a  place  where  three 
paths  met,  ho  stopped.  The  moon  had  ri.seu.  He  strained  his  eyes  in 
the  distance,  and  called  out  once  more:  "Petit  Gervais!  l*eliw  Ger- 
vais  !  Petit  Gervais!"  His  cries  died  away  into  the  miat,  without  even 
awakening  an  echo.  Again  ho  murmured  :  "Petit  GcyvaisI"  but  with 
H  feeble,  and  almost  iuartieulate  voice.  'J'hat  was  his  last  effort;  his 
knees  guildenly  bent  under  him,  as  if  an  invisible  power  overwhelmed 
Urn  at  a  blow,  with  the  weiglit  of  his  bad  conscience;  he  fell  exiiausted 
upon  a  great  stone,  hi.s  hands  clenched  in  his  hair,  and  his  face  on  his 
knees,  and  exclaimed  :   "  What  a  wretch  I  am  I  " 

Then  his  heart  swelled,  and  he  burst  into  leans.  It  was  the  firat  time 
Le  had  wept  for  nineteen  years. 

When  Jean  Valjcan  left  tlie  bishop's  hou.so^  as  wc  have  seen,  hismood 
was  one  that  he  had  never  known  before.  He  could-understand  nolhirig, 
of  what  was  pas.'^iug  within  him.  He  set  himself  stubbornly  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  angelic  deeds  and  the  gentle  words  of  the  old  man,  "you 
have  promised  mc  to  become  an  honest  man.  I  am  purcha.sing  your 
eoul,  1  withdraw  it  from  the  spirit  of  perver.^ity,  and  I  give  it  to  God 
Almighty."  This  came  back  to  him  incessantly.  '1\)  this  celestial 
tenderness,  he  oppcsed  pride,  which  is  the  fortress  of  evil  in  man.  He 
felt  dindy  that  the  pardon  of  this  priest  was  tho  hardest  a.^sauU,  and 
the  most  formidable  attack  which  ho  had  yet  sustained;  that  his  hard- 
ness of  heart  would  be  complete  if  it  resisted  this  kindness;  that  if  he 
Jrieldcd,  he  mu.st  renounce  that  hatred  with  which  the  acts  of  other  men 
lad  for  so  many  years  fdled  bin  soul,  anil  in  which  he  found  satisfaction; 
that,  this  time,  he  must* conquer  or  be  conijuerod,  and  that  the  struggle, 
a  gigantic  and  decisive  struggle,  had  begun  between  his  own  wickedness 
and  the  goodness  of  this  man.     • 

In  view  of  all   these*thit!gs,  ho  moved  Irlce  a  drunken  man.     While' 
thus  walking  on   with   haggard   look,   had   he  a  distinct    perception  of 

what  might  bo  to  him   the  result  of  his  adventure  at  i.) 'f     ll4d  he 

Jiear  those  mysterious  murmurs  which  warn  or  entreat  the  spirit  at  ecr- 
tiin  monjcnts  of  life?  Did  a  voice  whisp-r  in  his  ear  that  he  had  just 
pish  1  through  the  decisive  hour  of  his  destiny  ;  that  there  was  no  longer 
H  middle  course  for  hia^;  that  if,  thereafter,  he  should  not  be  the  best 
of  men,  he  would  be  tho  wor&t;  tliat  he  mui-t  now,  so  to  speak,  mount 
kigher  than  the  bishop,  or  fall  lower  thaH  the  galley  slave;  that,  if  ho 


FANTINE.  .  79 

would  become  good,  be  must  become  an  angel ;  that,  if  he  would  remain 
wicked,  he  must  become  a  monster? 

Here  we  fnust  again  ask  those  questions,  which  we  have  already  pro- 
posed elsewhere  :  was  some  confused  sshadow  of  all  this  formed  in  his 
mind  ?  Certainly,  misfortune,  we  have  said,  draws  out  the  intelligence; 
it  is  doubtful,  however,  if  Jean  Valjean  was  in  a  condition  to  discern 
all  that  wo  here  point  out.  If  these  ideas  occurred  to  him,  he  but 
caught  a  glimpse,  lie«did  not  see;  and  the  only  effect  was  to  throw  him 
into  an  inexpressible  and  distressing  co'nfusion.  Being  just  out  of  that 
misshapen  and  gloomy  thing  which  is  called  the  galleys,  the  bishop  had 
hurt  his  soul,  as  a  too  vivid  light  would  have  hurt  his  eyes  on  coming 
out  of  |he  dark.  The  future  life,  the  possible  life  that  was  offered  to 
him  thcucefortli,  all  pure  and  radiant,  filled  him  with  trembling  and 
anxiety.  lie  no  "longer  knew  really  where  he  was.  LTke  an  owl  who 
frhould  see  the  sun  suddenly  rise,  the  con-rtct  had  been  dazzled  and 
blinded  by  virtue. 

One  thing  was  certain,  nor  did  he  himself  doubt  it,  that  he  was  no 
Ijnger  the  same  man,  that  all  was  changed  in  him,  that  it  was  no  longer 
in  his  power  to  prevent  the  bishop  from  having  talked  to  him  and  hav- 
ing touched  him. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  he  had  met  Petit  Gervais,  and  stolen  his  forty 
sons.  Why  ?  lie  could  not  have  explained  it,  surely;  was  it  the  linal 
effect,  the  final  effort  of  the  evil  thoughts  he  had  brought  from  the  gal- 
leys, a  remnant  of  impulse,  a  result  of  what  is  called  in  physics 
<x^quire(l  force?  It  was  that,  and  it  was  also  perhaps  even  less  than 
that.  We  will  say  plainly,  it  was  not  he  who  had  stolen,  it  was  not  the 
man,  it  was  the  beast  which,  from  habit  and  in.itiuct,^had  stupidly  set 
his  foot  upon  that  monoy,  while  the  intellect  was  struggling  in  the 
midst  of  so  many  new  and  unknown  inliuences.  When  the  intellect 
awoke  and  saw  this  act  of  the  brute,  Jean  Valjean  recoiled  in  anguish 
and  uttered  a  cxy  of  horror. 

It  \?as  a  strange  phenomenon,  possible  only  in  the  condition  in  which 
he  then  was,  but  the  fact  is,  that  in  stealing  this  money  from  that  ahild, 
be  had  done  a  thing  of  which  he  was  no  longer  capable. 

However ,  that  maybe,  this  last  misdeed  had  a  decisive  effect  upon 
him  ;  it  ruj^hcd  across  the*  chaos  of  his  intellect  and  dissipated  it,  set 
the  light-oil  one  sije  and  the  dark  clouds  on  the  other,  and  acted  upon 
his  soul,  in  the^condition  it  was  in,  as  certain  chemical  reagents  act 
upon  a  turbid  mixture,  by  precipitating  one  element  and  producing  a 
clear  soluiion  of  the  other. 

At  first,  even  before  self-examination  and  reflection,  distractedly,  like 
one  who  .seeks  to  escapo,  he  endeavored  to  find  the  boy  to  give  him 
back  his  money  ;  then,  when  \\i  f;nind  that  that  was  useless  and  impos- 
sible, he  stopped  in  despair  At  the  very  moment  when  he  exclaimed-: 
"  What  a  wretch  I  am  !"  he  saw  himself  as  he  was,  and  was  already 
80  far  separated  from  himself  that  it  seemed  to  hi;n  that  he  was  only  a 
phantom,  nnd  that  he  had  there  before  him,  in  flesh  and  bone,  with  his 
slick  in  his  hand,  his  blouse  on  his  buck,  his  knapsack  filled  with  Stolen 
articles  on  his  shoulders,  with  his  stern  .and  gloomy  face,  and  his 
thoughts  full  of  ab(Jminablo -projects,  the  hUcous  galley  slave,  Jean 
Valjean. 


80  LES    MISKI^ABLES,  , 

Excess  of  misfortano,  we  have  remarlied,  had  made  -hiiu,  in  some 
sort,  a  visionary.  This  then  was  like  a  vision.  He  vcritabW  saw  this 
Jean  Valjoan,  this  ominous  face,  before  him.  lie  was  on  tuc  point  of 
asking  liimsclf  who  that  man  wa3,  and  he  was  horror-stricken  by  it. 

HU  brain  was  in  one  of  those  violent,  and  yet  friglitfully  calm,  con- 
ditions where  reverie  is  so  profound  that  it  swallows  up  r^litj.  Wo  no 
longer  sec  the  objects  that  are  bufore  us,  but  we  see  as  if  outside  of 
ourselves,  the  forms  that  we  have  jn  our  minds.       •  • 

He  beheld  himself  then,  so  to  speak,  face  to  face,  and  at  the  same 
time,  across  that  hallucination,  he  saw,  at  a  mysterious  distance,  a  sort 
of  light  which  lie  took  at  6rst  to  be  a  torch.  Examining  more  atten- 
tively this  light  which  dawned  upon  his  conscience,  he  re'cognizotl  that 
it  had  a  human  ^orm,  and  that  this  torch  was  .the  bishop 

His  conscience  wcijrhod  in  turn  these  two  men  tkus  placed  before  it, 
the  bishop  and  Jean  Valjeaii.  Anything  less  than  the  first  would  have 
failed  to  soften  the  second.  ]?y  one  of  those  singular  effects  which  are 
peculiar  to  this  kind  of  ecstasy,  as  his  reverie  continued,  the  bishop 
grew  grander  and  more  resplendent  in  his  eyes  ;  Joan  Valjean  shrank 
and  faded  away.  At  one  moment  he  was  but  a  shadow.  Suddenly  he 
disappeared.     The   bishop-alone  remained. 

He  filled  the  whole  soul  of  this  wretched  man  with  a  magnificent  ra- 
diance. 

Jean  Valjean  wept  long.  He  shed  hot  tears,  he  wept  bitterly,  with 
more  weakness  than  a  woman,  with  more  terror  than  a  child. 

While  he  wept,  the  light  grew  brigliter  and  brighter  in  his  mind — an 
extraordinary  light,- a  light  at  oucc  transporting  and  terrible.  His  past 
life,  his  first  offence,  his  long  expiation,  his  brutal  exterior,  his  har- 
dened interior,  his  release  made  glad  by  so  many  schemes  of  vengeance., 
what  had  happened  to  him  at  the  bishop's,  his  last  action,  this  theft  of 
forty  sous  from  a  child,  a  crime  the  meaner  and  the  more  monstrous 
that  it  came  after  the  bi.shop's  pardon,  all  this  returned  and  appeared  to 
him,  clearly,  but  in  a  light  that  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  beheld 
his  life,  and  it  seemed  to  him  horrible;  his  soul,  and  it  scorned  to  him 
frightful.  There  was,  however,  a  softened  light  upon  that  life  and 
upon  that  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  looking  upon  Satan  by 
the  light  of  Paradi.?e. 

How  long  did  he  weep  thus  ?  What  did  he  ck)  after  weeping? 
Where  did  he  go?  Nobod}'  ever  knew.  It  is  known  pimply  that,  on 
that  very  night,  the  stage-driver  who  drove  at  that  time  on  the  Greno- 
ble route,  and  arrived  at  I) about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  saw, 

as  he  passed  through  the  bishop's  street,  a  man  in  the  attitude  of  prayer, 
kneeling  upon  the"  pavcaieut  in  the  shadow,  before  the  door  of  My 
Lord  Bienvenu. 


fantine;  81 

;  IN  THE   YEAR   1817. 

*  ■  I. 

THE   YEAR    1817. 

The  year  1817  was  tliat^  which  Louis  XVIII.,  with  a  certain  royal 
assumption  not  devoid  of  stateliticss,  styled  the  twenty-second  year  of 
his  reign.  All  the  hair-dressers'  shops,  hoping  for  the  return  of  powdev 
and  birds'of  Paradise,  were  bedizened  with  azure  and  fleurs-de-lis.  It 
was  the' honest  time  when  Count  Lynch  sat  every  Sunday  as  church- 
warden on  the  official  bench  at  Saint^GermaiH  df  s  Pres,  in  the  dress  ©f 
a  Peer  of  France,  with  his  red  ribbon  and  long  nose,  and  that  majesty 
of  profile  peculiar  to  a  man  who  has  done  a  brilliant  deed.  The  bril-- 
liant»d{ied  committed  by  M.  Lynch  was  that,  being  mayor  of  Bpr- 
deux  on  the  12th  of  March,  1814,  he  hud,surrei;de*red  the  city  a  little 
too  soon  to  the  Duke  of  Angouleme.  Hence  his  peerage.  The  French 
army  was  dressed  in  while  after  the  Austrian  style;  regiments  were 
called  legions,  and  wore,  instead  of  numbers,  the  names  of  the  depart- 
ments. Napoleon  was  at  St.  Helena,  and  as  England  would  not  give 
him  green  cloth,  had  had  his  old  coats  turned.  In  1817,  Pellegrini  sang; 
Mademoiselle.  Bigottini  danced;  Potier  reigned;  Odry  was  not  yet  in 
existehce.  Madame  Saqui  succeeded  to  Forio.so.  Tlure  W(re  Pru.ssians 
still  in  France.  Prince  Talleyrand,  the  grand  chalnberlain,  and  Abbe 
Louis,  the  designated  miiii.ster  of  the  finances,  looked  each  other  in  the 
face,  laughing  like  two  augurs;  both  had  celebrate(4  the  mass  of  the 
Federation  in  the  Champ-de-Mars  on  14th  of- July,  1790;  Talleyrand 
had  said  it  as  bishop,  Louis  had  served  him  as  deacon.  In  1817,  in 
the  cross-walks  of  this  same  Champ-dc-Mars,  were  seen  huge  wooden 
cylinders,  painted  blue,  with  traces  of  eagles  and  bees,  that  had  lost 
their  gilding,  lying  in  the  rain,  and  rotting  in  the  grass.  These  were 
the  columns  which,  two  years.bcforo,  had  supported  the  estrade  of  the 
emperor  in  the  €hamp-de-Mai.  They  were  bla&kened  here  and  there 
from  the  bivouac  fires  of  the  Austrians  in  barracks  near  the  Gros-Caillou. 
Two  or  three  of  these  columns  had  disappeared  in  the  fires  of  these 
bivouacs,  and  had  warmed  the  huge  hands  .of  the  kaiserlics.  The 
Champ-dc-Mai  Was  remarkably  froln  the  fact  of  having  been  held  in  the 
month  of  June,  and  on  the  Champ-de-Mars.  The  latej-t  Parisian  sen-sa- 
tion  was' the  crime  of  Dautun,  who  had  thrown  his  brother's  head  into 
the  fountain  of  the  Marcho-aux-Fleurs  People  were  beginning  to  find 
fault  with  the  minister  of  the  navy  for  having  no  news  of  that  fated 
frigate,  La  M6duse,  which  was  to  cover  Chaumareix  with  shame,  and 
G6ricault  with  glory.  Colorful  Selves  went  to  Egypt,  tliere  to  become 
Soliman-Pacha.  The  Duchess  of  Duras  read  to  three  or  four  friends, 
in  her  boudoir,  furnished  in  sky-blue  satin,  the  manuscript  of  Ourika. 
The  N's  were  erased  from  the  Louvre.     The  bridge  of  Austerlitz  abdi- 


82  LES    MISERABLE3. 

catoJ  i's  name,  and  became  the  bridge  of  the  Jardia-du-Roi,  an  enigma 
which  disguised  at  ouce  the  bridge  of  Austerlitz .  and  the  'Jardiu-dcs- 
Plantcs  The  French  Academy  gave  as  a  prize  theme,-  Tlic  happiness 
u7t/VA    Sludi/  pn cures.     M.    Belhirt  was    eloquent,  oflieially.      In    his 

Shadow  w;is  seen  taking  root  the  future  Attoniey-Gencral,  de  Bvoo,  pro- 
mised tu  the  sarcasms  of  Paul  Lonis  Courier.  There  was  a  counterfeit 
C'hautcaubriaud  called  JMarchangy,  as  there  was  to  be  later.a  counterfeit 
Marchaugy  called  d'Arlincourt.      Claire  d' Alhc  and   Malek'  Adci  were 

■  masterpieces;  Madame  Cottin  was  ddtlarod  the  first  writer  of  the  age. 
The  Institute  struck  from  its  list  the  academician,  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
A  royal  ordinance  established  a  naval  school  at  Angouloujc,  for  the 
Dyke  of  Angouleme  being  Grand  Admiral,  it  was  evident  that  the  towa 
of  AngoulCmo  had  by  right  all  the  qualities  of  a  sea-port,  without  which 
the  monarchical  principle  would  have  been  assailed.  A  marriage  had 
just  been  made  up  with  a  Sicilian  princess  for  the  Duke  of  Berry,'who  was 
already  in  reality  regarded  with  suspicion  by  Louvel.  Madame  de  Staiil 
ha/I  been  dead  a  year.  Mademoiselle.  Mars  was  hissed  by  the  body-guards'. 
The  great  journals  were  all  small.  The  form  was  limited,  but  the  lib- 
ftrfy  was  large.  In  purchased  journals,  prosiituted  journalists  insulted 
the  outlaws  of '1815;  David  no  longer  had  talent,  Arnault  no  Itjpger 
liad  ability  ;  Caruot  no  longer  had  probity,  Soult  had  never  gained  a  . 
victory  ; — it  h  true  that  Napoleon  no  longer  had  genius.  All  people 
of  common  sense  agreed  that  the  era  of  revolutions  had  been  forever 
clorsed  by  King  Louis  XVIII,  turnamed  "The  immortal  author  of 
the  Charter."  At  the  terreplain  of  the  Point  Neuf,  the  word  Redivivus 
was  sculptured  on  the  pedestal  which  awaited  the  "statue  of  Henri  IV. 
Divorce  was  abolished.  The  lyceums  called  themselves  colleges.  The 
secret  police  of  the  palace  denounced  to  her  royal  highness,  Madame, 
the  piJi-trait  of  the-  Duke  of  Orleans,  which  was  ever} where  to  be 
seen,  and  which  looked  better  in'  the  uniform  of  colonel-general  of  hua- 
sars  than  the  Duke  of  Berry  in  the  uniform  of  colonel-general  of  dra- 
goons— a  serious  matter.  The  city  of  Paris  regilded  the  dome  of  the 
luvalides  at  its  expense. .  paint-Simon,  unknown,  was  building  up  his 
sublime  dream.  There  was  a  celebrated  Fouiler  in  the  Aciidemy  of 
Sciences  whom  posterity  has  forgotten,  and  an  obscure  Pourieriu  some 
unknown  garret  whom  the  future  will  remember.  Lord  Byron  wa3 
beginning  to  dawn;  a  note  to  a  poem  t)f  Millevoye  introduced  him  to 
France  as  a  certain  Lord  Baroii.  David  d' Angers  wa»  endeavoring  to 
knead  marble.  The  Abbc'Carou  spoke  with  praise,  in  a  small  party  of 
Seminarists  in  the  culdc-sac  of  the  Feuillantines,  of  an  unknown  priest, 
Felioite  Robert  by  name,  who  was  afterward.^  Lamcnuais.  A  thing  which 
smoked  and  clacked  on  the  Seine,  making  the  noise  of  a  swimming 
dog,  went  and  came  beneath  the  windows  of  the  Tuillerie.s,  from  the 
Pont  Royal  to  the  Pont  Louis  XV.;  it  was  a  piece  of  mechanisfti  oi^  no 
great  value,  a  sort  of  toy,  the  daydream  of  a  visionary  inventor,  a  Utopia — 
a  Steaniboat.  The  Parisians  looked  upon  the  useless  thing  with  indiffer- 
ence. Traitors  showed  themselves  stripped  even  of  hypocrisy;  mea 
who  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy  on  the  eve#of  a  battle  made  no  conceal- 
ment of  their  bribes,  Jind  shamelessly  walked  abroad  in  daylight  in  the 
cynicism  of  wealth  and  dignities;  deserters  of  Ligny  and  Quatre-Bras, 
iu  the  brazcnncss  of  their  purchased  shame,  exposed  the  nakedness  of 


*  •  FANTINS.  83 

their  devotion  to  monarchy,  forgetting  the  commonest  requirements  of 
public  decency. 

Such  was  the  confused  mass  of  events  that  floated  pell-mell  on  the 
surface  of  the  year  1817,  and  is  now  forgotten.  History  neglects  almost 
all  these  peculiarities,  nor  can  it  do  otherwise;  it  is  under  the  dominion 
of  in6nity.  Nevertheless,  these  details,  which  arc  wrongly  called  little — 
there  are  neither  little  facts  in  hunumity  nor  little  leaves  iu  vegetation — 
are  useful.  The  physiognomy  of  the  years  makes  up  the  face  of  the 
century. 

In  this  year,  1817,  four  young  Parisians  played  a  ''good  farce." 


II. 
doubIe  quatuor. 

These  Parisians  wore,  one  from  Toulouse,  another  from  Limoges,  the 
third  from  Cahors,  and  the  fourth  from  Montauban ;  but  they  were 
students,  and  to  say  student  is  to  say  I'arisian ;  and  to  study  in  Paris  is 
to  be  born  in  Paris.  '        .  # 

These  young  men  were  remarkable  for  nothing;  every  body  has  seen 
such  persons;  the  fuur  first  comers  will  serve  as  samples;  neither  good 
nor  bad,  neither  learned  nor  iirnorant,  neither  talented  nor  stupid; 
handsome  in  that  charming  April  of  life  which  we  call  twenty. 

The  first  of  them  was  called  I'elix  Tholomye.s,  of  Toulouse;  the 
second,  Listolier,  of  Cahors;  the  third,  Fanieuil,  of  Limoges;  and  the 
last,  Blachcville,  of  Montauban.  Of  course,  each  had  his  mist)i-ess. 
Blachevillo  loved  Favourite,  so  called,  because  she  had  been  in  Eng- 
land; Listolier  adored  Dahlia,  who  had  taken  the  irame  of  a  flower  as 
her  nom  de  c/ncrrc,  Fauieuil  idolized  Zephine,  the  diuiinutive  of  Jo- 
sephine, and  Tholomycs  had  Fantine,  called  iJic  Blonde,  on  account  of 
her  beautiful  hair,  the  color  of  the  sun.  Favourite,  Dahlia,  Z(5phinc 
and  Fantine  were  four  enchanting  girls,  perfumed  and  sparkling,  some- 
thing of  workwomen  still,  since  they  had  not  wholly  given  up  the  needle, 
agitated  by  love-aiTairs,  yet  preserving  on  their  countenances  a  remnant 
of  the  serenity  of  labor,  and  iu  their  souls  that  flower  of  purity  which,  in 
woman,  survives  the  first  fall.  One  of  tlic  four  was  called  the  Child, 
because  she  was  the  youngest ;  .and  auothoi^wascalled  the  Old  One — 
the  Old  One  was  twenty-three.  To  conceal  nothing,  the  three  first  were 
more  experienced,  more  careless,  and  better  versed  in  the  -ways  of  the 
world  than  Fantine,  the  Blonde,  who  was  still  in  her  first  illusion. 

Dahlia,  Z6phine  and  Favourite  especially  could  not  say  as  much.  There 
had  been  already  more  than  one  episode  in  their  scarcely  commenced 
romance,  and  the  lover,  called  Adolphc  in  the  fir.st  chapter,  was  found 
as  Alphonse  in  the  second  and  Gustavo  in  the  third.  l*overly  and  co- 
quetry are  fatal  counsellors;  (he  one  grumbles,  the  other  flatters,  and 
tlic  beautiful  daughters  of  the  people  have  both  whispering  in  their  ear, 
each  on  its  aide.  Their  ill-guarded  souls  listen.  Thcucc  their  fall,  jflid 
the  atones  that  arc  cast  at  them.     They  are  overwhelmed  with  the 


84  LES    MISERABLES.       '  ' 

Fplcndor  of  all  that  is  imiuaculate  and  inaccessible.     Alas  !   was  the' 
Jungfrau  ever  hungry? 

The  yaun"  men  were  comrades,  the  young  girls  were  fricnde.  Such 
loves  are  always  accntnpanied  by  such  friendships. 

Wisdom  and  philosophy  are  two  things;  a  proof  of  which  is  that, 
with  all  necessary  reservations  for  these  little,  irregular  households,  Fa- 
vourite, Zc'phine  and  Dahlia  were  philo-^ophic,  and  Fantine  was  wise. 

"  Wise  !  ".  you  will  say,.and  Tholomy^a  ?  Solomon  would  answer  that 
love  is  a  part  of  wisdom.  We  content  ourselves  with  saying  thafc  the 
love  of  Fantine  was  a  6rst,  an  onljp,  a  faithful  love. 

She  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  who  had  been  petted  by  but  one. 

Fantine  was,  one  of  ^those  beings  which  are  brought  forth  from  the 
heart  of  the  people.  Sprung  from  the  most  unfathomable  depths  of 
social  darkness,  she  bore  t)n  her  brow  the  mark  of  the  anonymous  and 
unknown.  She  was  born  tft  M on  M .  Who  were  her  pa- 
rents? None  could  tell,  she  had  never  known  either  father  or  mother. 
She  was  called  Fantipe — why  so?  boc'a«se  she  had  never  been  known 
by  any  other  name.  At  the  time  of  her  birth,  the  Directory  was  still 
in  existence.  She  could  have  no  fanuly  name,  f(*  she  had  no  family; 
siie  could  have  no  baptismal  name,  for  then  there  was  no  church.  She  ' 
was  namcnl  after  the  pleasure  of  the  first  passer-by  who  found  her,  a  mere 
infant,  straying  barefoot  in  tin;  sti'eets.  She  received  a  name  as  .^he  rc-- 
ceived'the  water  from  the  clouds  on  her  head  when  it  rained.  She  was 
called  Little  Fantine.  Nobody  knew  anything  more  of  Jier.  Such  was 
the  manner  in  which  this  human  being  had  come  into  life.  At  the  age 
of  ten,  Fantine  left  the  city  and  went  to  service  among  the  farmers  of 
the  suburbs.  At  fifteen,  the  came  to  Paris,  to  "  seek  her  fortune." 
Fantine  was  beautiful,  lyid  remained  pure  as  long  as  she  could.  She 
was  a  pretty  blonde,  with  fine  teeth.  She  had  gold  and  pearls  for  Lcr 
dowry;   but  the  gold  was  on  ffer  head  and  the  pearls  in  her  mouth, 

She  worked  to  live;  then,  also  to  live,  for  the  heart  too  has  its  hunger, 
she  loved. 

She  loved  Tholomyes. 

To  him,  it  was  an  amour;  to  her,  a  passion.  The  streets  of  the  Latin 
Quarter,  which  swarm  with  students  and  grisettes,  saw  the  beginning  of 
this  dream.  Fantine  in  those  labyrinths  of  the  hill  of  the  Pantheon, 
where  so  many  ties  are  knotted  and  unloosed,  long  fled  from  Tholomyes, 
but  in  such  a  way  as  always  to  meet  him  again.  There  is  a  way  of 
avoiding  a  person  which  resembles  a  search.  In  short,  the  eclogue  took 
place.  0 

JJlachevillc,  Listolier  and  Faraeuil  formed  a  sort  of  group,  of  which 
Tholomyes  was  the  head,     lie  was  the  wit  of  the  company. 

Tholomyes  was  an  old  student  of  the  old  style  ;.  he  was  rich,  having 
an  income  of  four  thousand  francs — a  splendid  scatidal  on  the  Montagne- 
Saiute-Genevii^vo.  He  was  a  good  liver,  thirty  years  old,  and  ill  pre- 
served. He  was  wrinkled,  his  teeth  were  broken,  and  he  was  beginning 
to  show  signs  of  baldness,  of  which  he  said,  gaily  :  "  71ie  head  at  tliirti/, 
the  knees  at  forty ^  His  digestion  was  not  good,  and  he  had  a  weeping 
eye.  But  in  proportion  as  his  youth  died  oirt,  his  gaiety  increased ;  he 
replaced  his  teeth  by  jests,  his  hair  by  joy,  his  health  by  irony,  and  his 
weeping  eye  was  always  laughing.     He  was  dilapidated,  but  covered 


FANTINE.  .  .85 

with  flowers.  His  youth,  decamping  long  before  it^  time,  was  beating 
a  retreat  in  good  order,  bursting  with  Uiughter,  and  displaying  no  loss 
of  fire.  lie  had  had  a  piece  refused  at  the  Vaudeville ;  he  made  verses 
now  and  then  on  any  subject;  moreover,  he  doubted  every  thing  with 
an  air  of  superiority — a  great  power  in  the  eyes  of  the  weak.  So,  being 
bald  and  ironical,  he  was  the  chief.  Can  the  word  iron  be  the  root  from 
which  irony  is  derived? 

One  day,  Tholomyes  to«k  the  other  three  aside,  and  said  to  them, 
"with  an' oracular  gesture  : 

"  For  nearly  a  year,  Fantine,  Dahlia,  Zephine  and  Favourite  have 
been  asking  us  to  give  them  a  surprise;"  we  have  solemnly  promised  them 
one.  They  are  constantly  reminding  us  of  it,  me  especially.  Just  as 
the  old  women  at  Naples  cry  to  Saint  January,  ^  Faccia  gialluta,  fa  o 
mtrac.lo,  yellow  face,  do  your  miracle,'  our  pretty  ones  arc  always  say- 
ing: 'Tholomyes,  when  are  you  going  to  bc'delivered  of  your  surprise?' 
At  the  same  time  our  parents  are  writing  for  us.  Two  birds  with  one 
stone.     It  seems  to  me  the  time  has  come.     Let  us  talk  it  over." 

.Upon  thi.s,  Tholomyes  lowered  his  voice,  and  mystcriouf^ly  articulated 
€omething  .so  ludicrous  that  a  prolonged  and  enthusiastic  giggling  arose 
from  the  four  throate  at  once,  and  IJlacheville  exclaimed  :  "  What  an 
idea  !" 

An  ale  house,  filled  with  smoke,  was  before  them  ;  they  entered,  and 
the  rest  of  their  conference  was  lost  in  its  shade. 

The  re'sult  of  this  mystery  was  a  brilliant  pleasure  party,  which  took 
])lacc"on  the  following  Sunday,  the  four  young  men  inviting  the  four 
young,  girls.  , 


III. 

FOUR   TO    FOUR. 

It  is  difficult  to  picture  to  one's  self,  at  this  day,  a  country  party  of 
students  and  grisettes  as  it  was  forty-five  years  ago.  Paris  lias  no 
longer  the  same  environs;  the  aspect  of  what  we  might  call  circum- 
]*arisian  life  has  completely  changed  in  half  a  century;  in  place  of  .the 
rude,  oncj-horse  chaise,  wo  have  now  the  railroad  car;  in  place  of  the 
pinnace,  wc  have  now  the  steamboat;  we  say  Fecamp  to-day,  as  we  then 
said  Saint  Cloud.  The  Paris  of  1SG2  is  a  city  which  has  France  for  its 
suburbs. 

The  four  couples  scrupulously  accomplished  all  the  country  follies 
then  possible.  It  was  jn  the  beginning  of  the  holidays,  and  a  warm, 
clear  summer's  day.  The  night  before,  Favourite,  the  only  one  who 
knew  how  to  write,  had  written  to  Tholoiuyi^s  in  the  name  of  the  four: 
"  It  is  lucky  to  go  out  early."  For  this  rea.son,  tiiey  rose  at  five  in  the 
morning.  Then  tliey  went  to  Saint  Cloud  by  the  coach,  looked  at  the 
dry  cascade,  and  exclaimed  :  "  How  beautiful  it  must  be  when  there  is 
any  water  I"  breakfasted  at  the  I'Cte  Noire,  which  Cast.iing  had  not  yet' 
pissed,  amused  themselves  with  a  game  of  rings  at  the  quincunx  of  the 
great  basin,  ascended  to  Diogenes'  lantern,  played  roulette  with  maca- 


SO  LK5    MIS6raBLES. 

-  on  tlie  S^vro8  briJeo,  fr^tliercl  boiiquot?  at  Piiteaux,  boujrht  reed 
1    I       at  Ncuilly,  ale  nppje  piiflr""  cvorywliort',  ami  were  pcvf-'ctly  lia'ppy. 

The  youn^r  girl;'  raltlc<l  nnd  chattered  liko  uncoired  warblers.  They 
were  d«diriou«  wit!)  joy.      All  four  woro  ravishinsjly  lu'autiful. 

A  po(td  ol<I  olassii;  p<^et,  then  in  ronnwn,  the  Chevalier  de  Labouispe, 
who  was  walking  that  day  under  the  chestnut  trees  of  Saint  Cloud,  Rnw 
(hem  pap«  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morninii,  and  oxclninicd,  thinVin^  of 
the  (tracoH :  ''There-  ia  one  t/\o  many!"*  Favourite,  the  friend  of 
lilaohcvilli',  the  Old  One  of  twenty  throe,  ran  forward  under  the.  broad 
frreen  branches,  leaped  across  ditche.s,  madly  .sprang  over  bushop.  and 
took  the  lead  in  the  gaiety  with  the  norve  of  n  young  fawn.  Zf-nhinc 
and  Dalilla,  whom  chance  had  cndowe<l  with  a  kind  of  beauty  that  was 
liei^htcnod  and  porfoi'tcd  by  contrast,  kept  together  through  the  inotinct 
of  coquetry  .still  more  than  through  friendship,  and,  leaning  on  each 
other,  affocted  l^nglish  attltude.s  ;  the  first  kcfpfi /crs  ha.l  just  appeared, 
molanchol}'  was  in  vogue  for  women,  as  Byronism  w;is  afterwards  for 
rn-^n,  and  the  locks  of  the  tender  sex  were  beginning  to  fsll  di?hf!vellcd. 
Zcpliine  and  Dahlia  wore  their  hair  in  rolls.  ]jist(ilicr  and  Fuifeuil,  en- 
gaged in  a  discussion  on  their  professon?,  explained  to  Fautinc  the  dif- 
ference between  M.  Delvincourt  and  M.  IMondeau.  ^ 

lilacheville  sceme  1  to  have  been  created  expres^l}'  to  carry  Favourite's 
dead-leaf  eoloureil  ^bawl  upon  his  arm  On  Sunday. 

Tlu)l(»my(\s  followed,  ruling,  pre!«itling  over  the  group.  lie  was  ex- 
cessively gay,  but  one  felt  the  governing  power  in  him.  There  was.dic- 
tatorship  in  his  joviality ;  his  principal  udornmont  was  a  p:>,ir  of  nankeen 
pantaloons,  cut  in  the  clc[(harkt-leg  fashicm,  with  uniler  stockings. of 
copper-coloured  bAid  ;  he  had  a  huge  mtfan,  worth  two  hundred  francs, 
in  his  hand,  and,  ns  ho  denied  himsejf  nothing,  a  strange  thine  called 
a  cigar  in  his  niouth.     Nothing  being  sacred  to  him,  he  was  smoking. 

"This,  Tholomyt''s,  is  astonishing,"  said  the  others,  with  veneration. 
"  What  pantaloons  !  what  energy!" 

As  to  Fanzine,  she  was  joy  itscdf.  Uer  splendid  teeth  had  evidently 
been  endowed  by  Cod  with  one"funclion-^tliat  of  laughing.  She  carried 
in  her  hand.ra(l\,cr  than  on  her  head,  her  little  hat  of  sowed  straw,  with 
long  white  strings.  Her  thick  bloiid  tresses,  inclined  to  wave,  ^nd 
easily  escaping  from  their  conliiiement,  obliging  her  to  fasten  tl.ciu  con- 
tinually, seemed  designed  for  the  flii^ht  of  Calatea  under  the  willows. 
Her  rosy  lips  babbled  with  enchantment.  The  corners  of  her  mouth, 
turned  up  voluptuously  like  the  antique  masks  of  Frigone,  eeemed  to 
encourag.'  audacity;  but  her  long,  sha<lowy  eyelashes  were  cast  discreetly 
down  tuwards  the  lower  part  of  her  face  tis  if  to  chock  its  festive  ten^ 
dcncics.  Her  whole  toilette  was  indescribably  harmonious  and  enchant- 
ing. She  wore  a  dress  of  mauve  barege,  little  reddish-brown  Itu.skins, 
the  strings  of  which  were  crossed  <ki'er  her  fme,  white,  open  worked 
stockings,  and  that  species  of  spencer,  invcnteil  at  Marseilles,  th"  name 
of  which,  canez'Mi,  a  corruption  of  the  words  tjuinzc  nofit  in  thf:  Canc- 
bi^re  dialect,  signifies  fine  weather,  warmth,  and  noon.  Thn  three 
others,  less  timid  as  we  have  eaid,  wore  low-necked  dresses,  which  in 
Rumnier,  beneath  bonneta  covered  with  flowers,  are  full  of  grace  and 
nllurement. 

A  brilliant  face,  delicate  profile,  eyes  of  deep  blue,  heavy  eyelasheg, 


vs' 


FANTINi;.  87 

small,  arching  feet,  the  wrists  na^l  ankles  neatly  encased,  the«white  skin 
showing  here  .and  there  the  azure  ajborescenco  of  the  veins;  a  cheek  . 
small  and  fresh,  a  neck  robust  as  that  of  Egean  Juno,  the  nape  firm  and 
supple,  shoulders  modelled  as  if  by  Coustou,  with  a  voluptuous  dimple 
in  the  centre,  just  visible  through  the  muslin;  a  gaiety  tempered  with 
reverie,  sculptured  and  cx(juisite — such  was  Fantine,  and  you  .divined 
beneath  this  dress  and  these  ribbons  a  statue,  and  in  this  statue  a  soul. 

Fantine  was  beautiful,  without  being  too  conscious  of  it.  Those  rare 
dreamers,  the  inysterious  priests  of  the  beautiful,  who  silently  compare 
all  things  with  perfection,  would  have  had  a  dim  vision  in  this  little 
work-woman,  through  the  transparency  of  Parisian  grace,  of  the  an- 
cient sncrcd  Euphony.  This  daughter  of  obscurity  had  race.  She  poj- 
?4lscd  both  types  of  beauty— style  and  rhythm.  Style  is  the  force  of 
the  ideal,  rhythm  is  its  movement. 

We  have  said  that  Fantine  was  joy;  Fantine  also  was  modesty. 

For  an  observer  who  had  studied  her  attentively  wnuld  have  found 
through  all  this  intoxication  of  youth,  of  season,  and  of  love,  an  uncon- 
querable expression  of  reserve  and  modesty.  She  was  somewhat  re- 
strained. This  chaste  restraint  is  the  shade  which  separates  Psyche  from 
Venus.  Fantine  had  the  l^ng,  white,  slender  fingers  of  the  vestals  that 
stir  the  ashes  of  the  sacred  fire  with  a  golden  rod.  Although  she  had  ' 
refused  nothing  to  Tholomyes,  as  might  bo  seen  but  too  well,  her  face, 
in  repose,  was  in  thc'highc.st  degree  maidenly;  a  kind  of  serious  and 
almost  austere  dignity  suddenly  possessed  it  at  times,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  strange  or  disquiodng  than  to  sec  gaiety  vanish  there  socjuickly, 
and  reflection  instantly  succeed  to  delight.  This  sudden  seriousness, 
sometimes  strani^ely  marked,  rcseiTibled  the  disdain  of  a  goddess.  Her 
foreheid,  nose  and  chin  presented  that  equilibrium  of  line,  quite  dis- 
tinct from  the  equilibrium  of  proportion,  which  produces  harmony  of 
features;  in  the  characteristic  interval  which  separates  the  base  of  the 
nose  from  the  upper  lip,  she  had  that  almost  imperceptible  but  charm- 
ing fold,  the  mysterious  sign  of  chastity,  which  enamored  Barbarossa 
with  a  l)iana,  found  in  the  excavations  of  Iconium. 

Love  is  a  fault;  be  it  so.  Fantine  was  innocence  floating  ftpon  the 
surface  of  this  fault. 


IV. 

XnotOMYES    IS    so    MERRY   THAT    HE    SINGS    A    SPANISH    SONG". 

That  day  was  sunshine  from  oifB  end  to  the  other.  All  nature  seemed 
to  be  out  on  a  holiday.  The  parterres  of  Saint  ('loud  were  balmy  with 
perfumes;  the  breeze  from  the  Seine  gently  waved  the  leaves;  the 
boughs  were  gesticulating  in  the  wind  ;  the  bees  wore  pillaging  the  jes- 
samine; a  whole  crew  of  butterflies  had  settled  in  the  milfoil,  clover, 
and  wild  oafs.  Tho  august  park  of  the  king  of  France  was  invaded  by 
a  swarm  of  vagabonds,  the  birds. 

The  four  joyous  couplrs  shone  resplendcntly  in  concert  with  tho  sun- 
shine, the  flowers,  the  fields  an<l  ihe'trees. 

And  in  this  paradisaical  community,  speaking,  singing,  running,  d^nc- 


L 


b8  LE3    MI8KRABLES. 

cliaj-ing  lutUrflic.*,  galhoiinij;  bind-wceJ',  wetting  tlioir  .open -worked 
.-iwkiiigj'  in  the  high  grass,  fresh,  wild,  but  nut  wiekeil,  ptoaling  kisses 
from  each  other  indiscriiuinatcly  now  and  then,  all  cxecpt  Kantine,  svho 
was  shut  up  in  lur  vague,  dreary,  severe  resistance,  and  who  wi\3  in 
love.  "You  always  havft  the  air  of  being  out  of  sorts,"  said  Favourite 
to  her.- 

Thcsc  are  true  pleasures.  These  pa.'^^agos  in  the  lives  of  happy 
couples  are  a  profound  appeal  to  life  and  nat\irc,  and  call  forth. endear- 
n)ent  and  light  from  everything.  There  was  once  upon  a  tifuc  a  fairy, 
who  created  meadows  and  trcc^  expressly  for  lovers.  Ilcnce  comes  that, 
eternal  school  among  the  groves  for  lovers,  whieli  is  always  opening,  and 
which  will  last  so  lung  as  there  are  thicket.^  and  pupils.  Hence  comes  # 
Ihe  popularity  of  spring  among  thinkers.  The  patrician  and  the  ki|^- 
grinllcr,  the  duke  and  peer,  and  the  peasant,  the  men  of  the  court, 
and  the  men  of  the  town,  as  was  said  in  olden  times,  all  arcf-  subjects  of 
this  fairy.  They  laugh,  they  seek  each  other,  the  air  seems  filled  with 
a  new  brightness  ;  what  a  transfiguration  is  it  to  'love  !  Notary  clerks 
are  gods.  And  the  little  shrieks,  the  pursuits  among  the  grass,  the 
\vaists  encircled  by  stealth,  that  jargon  which  is  melody,  that  adoration 
which  breaks  forth  in  a  syllable,  those  chcwies  snatched  from  one  pair 
of- lips  by  another — all  kindle  up,  and  become  transformed  into  celestial 
glories. 

.  After  breakfast,  the  four  couples  went  to  see,  in  wha^  was  then  called 
the  king'h  .*(juare,  a  plant  newly  arrived  from  the  Indies,  the  name  of 
which  escapes  us  at  present,  and  which  at  this  time  was  attracting  all 
I'atisto  Saint  Cloud  :  it  was  a  strange  and  beautiful  shrub  with  a  long 
stalk,  the  innumerable  brauclus  of  wliich,  fine  as  threads,  tangled  and 
leafless,  wore  covered  Avith  millions  of  Uttlo,  white  blossoms,  which  gave 
it  the  appearance  of  ilowing  hair,  powdered  with  lluwors.  There  was 
always  avrowd  admiring  it. 

When  they  had  viewed  the  shrub,  Tbblomyi^s  exclaimed,  "I  propose 
donkeys,"  and  making  a  bargain  with  a  donkey-driver,  thoy  returned 
through  Vauvres  and  Is.sy.  At  Issy  they  had  an  adventure.  The 
park,  IJicn-National,  owned  at  this  time  by  the  commissary  ]}ourguin, 
was  by  sheer  ■good  luck  open.  They  passed  through  the  grating,  visited 
the  munnikin  anchorite  in  his  grotto,  and  tried  the  mysterious  effects 
of  the  famous  cabinet  of  mirrors — a  wanton  trap,  worthy  of  a  satyr 
become  a'  millionaire,  or  Turcarot  metamorphosed  into  IViapus.  They 
swung  stoutly  in  the  great  swing,  attached  to  the  two  chestnut  trees, 
celebrated  by  the  AbbiS  do  IJeinis.  While  swinging  the  girls,"  one 
after  the  other,  and  makii»g  folds  of  flying  crinoline  that  (Ircuze  would 
Ifave  found  woith  h^s  study,  (he  TouUusian  Tholomyes,  who  was  some- 
.thing  of  a  Spaniard — Toulouse  is  cousin  to  Tolosa — sang,  in  a  melan- 
choly key,  the  old  <j<illf</<i  song,  probably  inspired  by  some  beautiful 
dam.scl  swinging  in  the  air  between  two  teres. 

Fantine  alone  refused  toj»wiug. 

"  I  do  not  like  -this  sort  of  airs,"  murmured  Favourite,  rather 
sharply. 

They  left  tlie  donkeys  for  a  new  pleasure,  cros.scd  the  Seine  in  a  boat, 
and  walked  fro;n  Passy  to  the  Barriere  de  I'l'^toile.  They  had  boon  on 
their  feet,  it  will  bo  remembered,  since  five   in  the   morning,   but  hah  ! 


FANTINE.  89 

there  is  no  wearinesa  on  Simdni/,  sinul  Favourite;  on  Sinidai/  /afi'ijue 
has  a  holidni/.  Towards  lhrc(!  o'clock,  tlic  four  couples,  wild  with  hap- 
piness, were  running  down  to  the  Ri.ssian  uiounfains,  a  s^ingular  edifice 
which  then  occupied  fclie  heights  of  Heaujon,  and  the  serpen" ine  line  of 
which  might  have  been  perceived  above  the  trees  of  the  (."haoipg 
Klyj-eoS. 

From  time  to  time  Fitvomite  exclaimed  : 

"  Hut  the  surprise  ?     I  want  <he  surpric<c." 

"  Be  patient,"  answered  T.holomy6s. 


AT    BOMBARDA  S. 

The  Russian  mountains  exhausted,  thej  thought  of  dinner,  and  the 
happy  eight,  a  little  wcarj»  at  last,  stranded  on  Bombarda's,  a  branch  es- 
tablishment, set  up  in  the  Champs  Kl^^ees  by  the  celebrated  restaura- 
teur, Biimbarda,  whose  sign  was  then  scon  on  the  Hue  do  llivoli,  near 
the  Dclorme  arcade. 

A  large  but  plain  apartment,  with  nn  alcove  containing  a  bed  at  the 
'bottom  (the  place  was  so  full  on  Sunday  that  it  was  necessary  to  take  up 
with  this  loduing-room) ;  two  windows  from  which  they  could  see, 
through  the  elms,  the  quai  and  lh(y  river ;  a  magnificent  August  sun- 
beam glancing  over  the  windows;  two  tables;  one  loaded  with, a  tri- 
umphant mountain  of  bouquets,  interspersed  with'  hats  and  bonnets, 
while  at  the  other,  the  four  couples  were  gathered  around  a  joyous  pile 
of  plates,  napkins,  glasses,  and  bottles;  jugs  of  beer  and  flasks  of  wine; 
little  order  on  the  table,  and  some  disorder  under  it.  • 

Here  was  where  the  pustoral,  commenced  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, was  to  be  found  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  sun  was  de- 
clining, and  their  appetite  with  it. 

The  Chainps  Elysei^s,  full  of  Sunshine  and  people,  was  nothing  but 
glare  and  dust,  (he  two  elements  of  glory. 

Crowds  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  faubourgs  in  their  Sunday  clothes, 
(•onietimes  evtn  deckOT  with  fleursde  lis  like  the  citizens,  were  scattei-ed 
over  the  great  square  and  tlfe  square  Marigny,  playing  games  and  going 
around  on  wooden  horses;  others  were  drinking;  arfew,  printer  appren- 
tices, had  on  paper  caps;  thrir  laughter  resounded  through  the  air. 
Kverything  was  radiant. 

Meanwhile,  while  some  were  singing  the  rest 'were  all  nnisily  talking 
at  the  same  time.      There  was  a  perfect  uproar.     Tholomytis  interfered.. 

"  Do  not  talk  at  random,  nor  to)  fast!"  exclaimed  he;  "we  must 
take  tim«  for  reflection,  if  we  would  be  brilliant.  Too  much  improvisa- 
tion leaves  the  mind  stupiilly  void.  Running  beer  gathers  no  foam. 
Oontlemen,  no  haste.  Mingle  dignity  with  festivity,  eat  with  delibera- 
tion, feast  slowly.  Take  your  tin\e.  8ee  (he  spring;  if  fl  hastens  for- 
ward, it  is  ruined ;  that  is,  frozurf.  Excess  of  zeal  kills  peach  and 
apricot  trees.  Kxecss  of  z  al  kills  the  /race  and  joy  of  good  dinners. 
No  zeal,  gentlemen  !  Orimod  de  la  Kcyniiire  i.s  of  Talloyrand'.s  opinion." 

"Tholomyfes,  let  us  alone,"  said  Rlaihcvillc. 

7 


90  l-'i^    MISKr.ABLF.8. 

"Down  witli  the  lyrant !"  cried  Famcuil. 

"  My  frictnU  !"  cx< laimod  Thil  imy»''-«,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  resunfiog 
bif  8way.  "  Collect  your.-elvca.  My  brethren,  I  repeat,  no  zeal,  no 
no'xBo.  no  excess,  even  in  witticisms,  niirlli,  paiety.and  plays  on  words. 
Lt^tcn  to  mo ;  I  Invc  the  prudence  of  AiuphiarHua,  and  the  boliness  of 
Cawar.  Th-^ro  must  be  a  limit,  even  to  rebus- s  ;  Est  incifns  in  r<bu$. 
There  must  be  a  limit  even  to  dinners.  You  Iili«  apple-puffs,  ladies;  do 
not  abuse  them.  There  must  bo,  even  in  puffs,  good  Rcnsc  and  art. 
Gluttony  punishes  the  fjltitfon.  OuI:i  puni.shes  Gulax.  Indigestion  is 
•har;:ed  by  (lod  witl^  enf.ircing  moraliy  on  llie  stoir,ath.  And  remem- 
ber this:  each  of  our  papgions,  even  love,  has  a  stomach  that  must  not 
be  ovcrlcaded.  We  must  in  evtrylhing  wri.e  the  word  fuix  in  lime; 
we  muHt  restrain  ourseives,  when  it  becomes  urgent;  we  must  draw  the 
boll  on  the  appetirc,-  play  a  fantasia  on  the  violin,  then  break  the  string* 
with  our  own  hand.  « 

•' Tholomyes,"  cried  Blachevil'c.  "you -are  drunk." 

"The  deuce  I  am  !  '  said  TholomyiNs.  ,  , 

"Then  be  gay,"  resumed  Hlacbcville. 

"  1  agree,"  replied  Tliolomyt^s. 

Then  filling  his  glass,  he  arose. 

"  Honor  to  wine!  A'xnc  tr,  liticrJte,  cannm  Pardon,  ladies,  that  ia 
8p;ini>h  And  here  i-s  the  proof,  svn'n-ns;  like  wine  measure,  like  jieo- 
pic  The  arroba  of  Ca.Hfilc  contains  sixteen  litres,  the  cautaro  of  Ali- 
cante twelve,  the  alnnidu  of  the  (.'antiries  twenty-five,  the  cuartin  of  the 
BiikMres  twenty-six,  and  the  boot  of  Czar  Tetjr  thirty.  ]i0ng  live  the 
ozir,  who  was  great,  and  long  live  his  boot,  whjch  was  still  «^reatcr ! 
liadirs,  a  friendly  counsel  !  deceive  your  miglibois,  if  it  eeems  good  to 
you.  The  characteristic  of  love  is  to  rove.  Love  was  not  niadcr  to 
cower  and  crouch  like  an  English  housemaid  who.>=e  knees  arc  ealluscd 
with  scrubbing.  Gentle  lovo  was  made'but  to  rove  gaily!  It  has  been 
Baid  to  err  is  human  ;  I  say,  to  orr  is  loving  •  Ladies,  I  idolize  yo\i  all. 
O  Zrphiiie,  or  Josephine,  with  face  more  thiin  vsrinkl»jJ,  you  would  bo 
chiirming  if  you  w^n:^'  not  cro.ss.  As*  to  Favourite,  oh,  nymphs  and 
muses,  f.ne  day,  as  Hlachevillo  was  cros>ing  the  Hue  Gucrin-HoiirHeau,  ho 
saw  a  beautiful  girl  with  white,  well-gartered  stockings,  who  was  show- 
ing tlicm  The  prologue  pleased  him,  and  Hlfeheville  loved.  She 
whom  he  loved  was  Favourite.  (Hj,  Favounitc  !  '1  hou  hast  Ionian  lips. 
Tlierc  was  a  (iirej;k  jiiinter,  Kuphorion,  who  was  surnamed  painter  of 
lips  This  Greitk  alono  would  have  been  worthy  to  paint  thy  moiiih 
Lir^tcn  !  before  thee,  there  was  no  creature  worthy  the  name.  Thou 
weri  made  to  receive  thf  apple  like  Veiiu^,  or  to  eat  it  like  Fvc.  Ikauiy 
b«';:iiis  with  thee.  Thou  deserv«'st  the  patent  for  the  invention  of 
biaiiiiful  women.  Oh.  Favourite,  I  c«':«se  to  thou  you,  for  I  pass 
fmiii  poi'try  In  prose.  You  spoke  just  now  of  my  name.  It  mgved  i«e ; 
but  whatever  we  do  let  ms  udI  trust  to  names,  'hey  maybe  deceitful.  I 
am  called  Felix,  I  am  not  happy  Oh,  Faiitine,  know  this:  I,  Tholo- 
ni3e-i.am  an  illusion  —  but  she  do^s  not  (vc:i  hi  ar  me  -the  fair  daughter 
of  cliimeras!  Nevertheless,  everylhing  on  her  is  freshness,  gentleness, 
y"Uili.  Btfi.  matiiial  eiearnrs.s.  Oh,  Fantiiie,  wortliy  to  be  called  Mar- 
gU'  lite  or  Pearl,  you  aie  a  jewel  of  the  purest  water.  Ladies,  a  second 
OO'iU'cl,  do  not  marry;  marriage  is   a  graft;  it  may  take  well   or  ill. 


FANTINE.  91 

Slum  tlie  risk.  But 'what  do  I  pay?  I  am  wa.sting  my  worJa.  -  Wo- 
men are  incurable  on  the  subject  of  weddin;:8,  and  all  that  ^sc  wise  men 
can  say  will  not  hinder  vest-makers  and  paiter-bindcrs  from  dr^iaming 
about  husbands  loaded  with  diamonds.  Well,  be  it  so;  but,  beauties, 
remember  this  :  you  cat  too  much  sugar.  You  have  but  one  fault,  oh, 
wojncn  !  it  is  that  of  nibbling  sugar..  Oh,  consuming  sex,  the  pretty, 
little  white  teeth  adore  sugar.  Now,  listen  attentively  !  Sugar  i.«<  a  salt. 
Every  .salt  is  desiccating^  Sugar  is  the  most  desiccating  of  all  salts. 
It  sucks  up  the  liquids  from  the  blood  through  the  veins;  thence  comee 
the  coagulation,  then  the  solidification  of  the  blood;  thence  tubercles  itt 
the  lungs;  thence  death.  And  this  is  why  diabetes  borders  on  con* 
sumption.  Orunch  no  sugar,  tliercforc,  and  you  shall  live!  I  "turn  to- 
wards the  men  :  gcntjemen,  make  conquests.  Hob  each  other  without 
remorse  of  your  beloved.  Chassez  and  cross  over.  There  aro  no  friends 
in  love.  VVherever  there  i.s  a  pretty  woman,  hostility  is  open.  No 
quarter  ;  war  to  the  knife  !  A  pretty  woman  is  a  casus  beW  ;  a  pretty 
woman  is  a  Jirtjraus  (hh\[um.  All  the  invasions  of  history  have  been 
determined  by  petticoats.  Woman  is  the  right  of  man.  Romulus  car- 
ried off  the  Sabine  women;  William  carried  oflf  the  Saxoa  women j 
Caesar  carried  off  the  Roman  women.  The  man  who  is  not  loved  hovers 
like  a  vulture  over  the  s^veetheart  of  others;  and  for  my  part,  to  all  un- 
fortunate widowers,  I  issue  the  sublime  proclamation  of  Bonaparte  to 
the  army  of  Italy,  "  Soldiers,  you  lack  for  everything.  The  enem^  has 
everytliing."  * 

Tiiolomyes  checked  himself, 

"Take  breath,  Tholomytisf'  said  Blachcville. 

At  the  same  time,  Blachcville,  aided  by  tiistolier  and  Fameui),  with 
an  air  of  lament^ition  hummed  one  of  those  studio  songs,  made  up  of 
the  first  words  that  came,  rhyming  richly  and  not  at  all,  void  of  eenf-e  as 
the  movement  of  the  tre6s  and  the  sound  of  the  winds,  and  which  are 
borne  from  the  smoke  of  the  pipes,  and  dissipate  and  take  flight  with  it. 

This  was  not.  likely  to  calm  the  inspiration  of  Tholomy^j  ho  cmp- 
tieil  his  glass,  filled  it,  and  again  began  : 

*'  Down  with  wisdom  !  forget  all  that  I  have  said.  Let  us  be  ncithcT 
prudes,  nur  prudent,  nor  prud'hommcs  !  I  drink  to  jollity;  let  us.be 
jolly.  Let  us  finish  our  course  of  stutly  by  fully  and  prating.  Indiges- 
tion and  the  Digest.  Let  Justinian  be  the  male,  and  Festivity  the  fe- 
male There  is  joy  in  the  abysses  BehoM,  oh,  creation  !  The 
world  is  a  huge  diamond!  I  am  happy.  The  birds  are  marvellous. 
Wli.it  a  fesiiviil  everywiiere  !  The  niglitingale  is  an  Elleviou  gratis. 
Slimmer,  I  salute  tht'e.  Oh,  Luxembourg  !  Oh,  Georgics  of  Ihe  Rue 
JIadame,  and  the  Allee  do  TObservatoire  !  Oh,  entranced  dreamers  I 
The  pampas  of  America  would  deli>;ht  me,  if  I  had  not  the  arcades  of 
the  O'lc'iu.  My  .-^onl  gues  out  towards  virgin  forests  and  savannahs. 
Kv(  rythiuL'  is  be:mtit'i>l  ;  the  flies  hum  in  the  sunbeams.  The  humming- 
birds whizz  in  the  suuKJiine.      Kiss  u>c,  Fantinc  !" 

Andj'by  inistake,  h«;  kissed  Favourite. 


92  LES    MISKRADLES. 


VI. 

DKATn    OK    A    nORSE. 

"The  dinners  are  better  at  EJou's  thau  at  Bombarda's,  exclaimed 

Ji6pliinc.  •, 

♦•I  like  liombarda  better  than  Edon,"  said  Blachevillo.  "There  is 
more  luxury.  It  ia  more  Asiatic.  Sec  the  lower  hall.  Tlierc  are  U)ir- 
rors  on  the  walls  " 

"Look  at  the  knives.  The  handbs  are  silver  at  Bomlianla'.s,  and 
bone  at  E'Iod's.     Now,  silver  is  more  precious  than  bono." 

"  Except  when  it  is  on  the  chin,"  observed  Tholomyil's. 

lie  looked  out  at  this  moment  at  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  which 
was  vi.<ible  from  liombard^'s  windows.  ' ' 

There  w.is  a  pau.se. 

Tholomyc-i,"  cried  Famcuil,  "Listolior  and  I  have  ju.-t  had  a  dia- 
cus.^ion." 

"  A  disfcus^ion  is  good,"  replied  TholomjC's,  "  a  quarrel  is  better."- 

"  We  were  di.-jcu.s.«sinj;;  philosophy." 

"  I  have  no  objection." 

"  Which  do  you  pnfer,  Descartes  or  Spinoza?" 

"  IV'saupicr.s/'  said  Tholom\^'^ 

This  decision  rendered,  he  drank,  and  resumed  : 

"  I  consent  to  live.  All  i.s  not  over  on  earth,  since  we  can  yet  reason 
falsely.  I  render  thanks  for  this  to  the  immortal  god.".  We  lie,  but  wo 
laugh.  \Vc  affirm,  but  we  doubt.  The  unexpected  ehoot.s  forlli  from  a 
syllogism.  It  is  fine.  There  are  men  still  on  earth  who  know  how  to 
open  and  shut  plea-^antly  the  surpri.sc  boxes  of  paradox.  Know,  ladies, 
that  this  wine  you  are  drinking  so  calmly,  is  I^Iadeira,  from  the  vine- 
yard of  Coural  das  Vrciras,  which  is  three  hundred  and  .»!evcnfecn 
fathoms  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Attention  while  you  drink  !  three 
hundred  and  seventeen  fathoms!  and-  M.  Bombarda,  this  magnificent 
restaurateur,  gives  you  three  hundred  and  seventeen  fathoms  for  four 
francs,  fifty  centimes  " 

«'  Honor  to  Bombarda  !  he  would  equal  Munophis  of  Elejdianta  if  ho 
could  bring  me  a  hotaira  !  for,  oh,  ladies,  there  were  Boinbardas  in 
Oreeee  and  Egypt;  this  Apuleius  teaches  u.s  Alas  I  always  the  same 
thing  and  nothing  new.  Nothing  tnorc  unpublished  in  the  creation  of 
the  Creator!  AV/  *■?</<  soff  iiontm,  says  Solomon  ;  amnr  omnllius  iifrm, 
pays  Virgil ;  and  Carabine  mounts  with  (^irabin  in  the  galliot  at  Saint 
Cloud,  as  Aspasia  enibark<(l  with  Teijeles  on  the  fleet  of  Samos.  A 
last  word.  Do  you  know  who  this  Aspasia  was,  ladies':'  Although  she 
lived  in  a  time  when  woman  had  not  yet  a  soul,  she  was  a  soul ;  a  soul 
of  a  rooe  and  purple  .shadcj  more  glowing  than  fire,  fresher  than  the 
dawn.  Aspiusia  was  a  being  who  touched  the  two  extremes  of  woman, 
the  prostitute  goddess.  She  was  Socrates,  plus  Manon  Lescaut.  A-spa- 
iiia  was  created  in  ca.se  Prometheus  might  need  a  wanton," 

Tholon>y(>s,  now  that  he  was  started,  would  have  been  stopped  with 
difhculty,  had  not  a  horse  fallen  down  at  this  moment  on  the  quai.  The 
fcbock  stopped  slutrt  both  the  cart  and  the  orator.  It  was  an  old,  nicagro 
marc,  worthy  of  the  ](nacker,  harnes'cd  to  a  very  heavy  cart.    Oivrcacb- 


*  FANTINE.       '  93 

ing  Bombarcla's,  the  beast,  worn  and  exhausted,  had  refused  to  go  fur- 
ther. This  incident  attracted  a  crowd.  Scarcely  had  the  carman, 
Bwearing  and  indignant,  had  time  to  utter  with  fitting  energ}'  the  deci- 
eive  word,  '■^  mCdin  !"  backed  by  a  terrible  stroke  of  the  whip,  when 
the  hack  fell,  to  rise  no  more. 

"  Poor  horse  !  "  sighed  Fantine.  , 

Dahlia  exclaimed  : 

"  Hero  is  Fantine  pitying  horses  !  Was  there  ever  anything  so 
absurd?" 

At  this  moment,  Favourite,  crossing  her  arms  and  turning  round  her 
head,  looked  fixedly  at  Tl)oloniy6s  and  said  : 

"Come!  the  surprise?" 

'•'Precisely.  The  moment  has  con>c,"  replied  Tholomy^s.  "Gen- 
tlemen, the  hour  has  come  for  surprising  these  ladies.  Ladies,  wait  for 
us  a  moment." 

"It  begins  with  a  kiss,"  said  Blachcville. 

"Cn  the  forehead,"  added  Tholomyiis. 

Each  one  gravel}'  placed  a  kiss  on  the  fordicad  of  his  mistress,  after 
which  they  directed  their  steps  towards  the  door,  all  four  in  file,  laying 
their  fingers  on  their  lips. 

Favouiite  clapped  her  hands  as  they  went  out. 

"  It  is  amu.>;ing  already,"   said  she. 

"  Do  not  be  t(K)  long,"  murmured  Fantine.  "  We  arc  waiting  for 
you."  • 


VII. 


JOYOUS   END   OF  JOY.  " 

The  girls,  left  alone,  leaned  their  elbows  on  the  window  sills  in  cou- 
ples, and  chattered  together,  bending  thqir  heads  and  speaking  from 
one  window  to  the  other. 

They  .saw  the  young  men   go  out  of  Bombarda's,  arm  in  arm  ;    thry 
turned  round,  made  signals  to  them  laughingly,  then  disappeared  in  the 
dusty  Sunday  crowd  which  takes  possession  of  the  Champs-Elysees  once 
a  week. 
,     "  Do  not  be  long  !"  cried  Fantine. 

"  What  are  they  going  to  bring  us?"j^id  Z<5phine. 

"Surely  something  pretty,"  said  Dahlia. 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  of  gold,"  resumed  Favourite. 

They  .were  soon  di.stracted  by  the  stir  on  the  water's  edge,  which 
they  distinguished  through  the  bnmches  of  the  tall  trees,  and  which 
diverted" them  greatly.  It  was  the  hour  for  the  departure  of  the  mails 
and  diligences.  -Almost  all  the  stage-coaches  to  the  south  and  we.st, 
passed  at  tlyit  time  by  the  (Jhamps-Ely^ei^s.  The  greater  part  followed 
the  quai  and  went  out  through  the  Darriorc  Passy.  Every  minute  some 
huge  vehicle,  painted  yelhtw  and  black,  heavily  loaded,  noisily  harnessed, 
distorted  with  trunks,  awnings,  and  valises,  full  of  heads  that  weie  con- 
stantly disappearing,  grinding  the  curb-stones,  taming  the  pavcmentg 


04  LKS    MIPKRABLES.        * 

int'^flinlK,  runlicd  through  the  crowd,  throwing  eut  pparks  like  a  forge, 
wiih  duHt  for  hiiioke,  and  nn  air  of  fury.  This  hubbub  delighted  the 
juuo;!  pirU.      I''«vouri^c  exclaimed  : 

"  What  an  uproar;  one  would  any  that  heaps  of  chains  were  taking 

It  no  happcnqd  that  one  of  these  vehicles  which  could  be  distinpjuishcd 
with  difficulty  through  the  obscurity  of  the  elms,  .stopped  for  a  moment, 
Chen  net  out  again  on  a  gallop.     This  .surpri.-^ed  rantino. 

"  It  ii  Hininge,"  said  Hhc,    "  I  thought  the  diligences  never  stopped." 

Favourite  bhruggcd  her  shoulders  : 

*'Thi.s  Fantiue  is  surprising;  I  look  at  her  with  curio-sity.  She  won- 
ders al  the  mo3t  simple  thing.s.  Supposi;  that  I  am  a  traveller,  and  say 
to   the  diligence,  "  I- am  going  on  ;  you  can  take,  me  up  on  the   quat  in 

fjafising."     The  diligence  pas.ses,  sees  rae,  stops  and  takes  \\k  up.     This 
i;ip[)ens  every  day.      You  know  nothing  of  life,  my  dear." 

Ktime  lime  passed  in  this  muuner.  Suddenly  Favourite  sUirtcd  as. if 
from  sleep. 

•'  Well  !  "  saitl  she,   "and  the  surprise?" 

"  Yc«,"   returned  i)ahlia,   "  the  famous  8urpri.sc." 

''  They  are  very  long  !"    said  riutiue. 

As  I'iintine  iioished  the  sigh,  the  boy  who  had  waited  at  dinner  en-, 
tcrod.      lie  iiad  in  his  hand  something  that  looked  like  a  letter 

«'  What  is  that?"  a^ked  Favourite.  • 

*'  I^  is  n  p.tper  that  the  gentlemen  left  for  these  ladies,"  he  replied. 

"  Why  did  you  .m-t  bring  it  at  once  ?  " 

*'  IJccuuHe  the  geniltincn  ordered  me  not  to  give  it  to  t4ie  ladies  before 
an  liour,"  returned  the  boy. 

Favourite  snatched  the  paper  from  his  hands.  It  was  really  a 
letter 

"  Stop  !  "  eaid  she.  "  There  is  no  address  ;  but  see  what  is  written 
On.it:"  ... 

"this    18   THE   SURPRIgE." 

« 

8lio  hastily  unsealed  the  letter,  opened  it,  and  read  (she  knew  how  to 
read )  : 

♦'  Oh,  our  beloved  ! 

*'  Ktjow  that  we  have  parents.  Parents  — you  scarcely  know  the 
incaniu;;  of  the  word,  tliey  are  what  ure  called  fathers  aud  mt'tlier?  in 
(lie  civil  code,  simple  but  honest.  Now^the^e  parents  bemoan  us,  these 
oM  men  claim  us,  these  gooj^en  and  women  call  us  prodigal  sous,  do- 
Bire  our  iiturn  and  offer  to  kill  for  us  the  fatted  calf  We  obey  them, 
Leing  viriu  tus.  At  the  motnont  when  ycju  read  this,  (ive  metflesomo 
Lorses  will  be  bearing  us  back  to  our  papas  aud  mammas.  We  are 
vauishiug,  iiH  ]{ossuet  says  Wo  are  going,  we  are  gone.  We  lly  in 
the  arms  of  Laflilte,  and  on  the  wings  of  (!ailliard.='=  The  Toulouse  dil- 
igence snafchiB  us  from  the  abyss,  and  ycm  are  this  abyss,  our  beautiful 
darlings  !  We  arc  returning  to  society,  to  duly  aud  order,  ou  a  full 
tioi,  at  the  rate  of  three  leagues  an  hour.     It  is  accessary  to  the  coua- 


•  Tbb  diliyfncet  or  mail-coaclies  were  llicn  run  by  the  firm  q[ Luffillc  et  Cailtuird. 


FANTINE.  95 

try  that  we  become,  like  everybody  else,  prefects,  fathers  of  funiilios, 
rural  guards,  and  councillors  of  state.  Venerate  us.  Wo  sacrifice 
ourselves.  jVIoura  for  us  rapidly,  and  replace  us  speedily.  If  this  Ici- 
l# rends  you,  rend  it  in  turn.     Adieu. 

"  For  nearly  two  years  we  have  made  you  happy.  Bear  us  no  ill 
will  fur  it." 

"Signed:  Ulachevillk, 

Fameuil, 
LisroLiKR, 
Felix  Tuolomyes. 
"  P.  S.     The  dinner  is  paid  for.  " 

'    The  four  girls  gazed  at  each  other. 

Favourite  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"  Well  !  "   said  slic,   "  ir  is  a  good  farce,  all  the  same." 

"  It  is  very  droll,"  said  Z<'*phine 

"  It  must  have   b?cu  Bhichyville   that  had   the  idea,"   resumed   Fa- 
vourite.     "  This  makes  me  in   iove  with  him.     Soon  loved,  soon   gone. 
That  is  the  story  " 
.  "  No,"  said  Dahlia,   "it  is  an  idea  of  Tholomyfis.     That  is  clear  " 

"In  that  case,"  returned  Favourite,  "down  with  Blacheville,  and 
long  live  Tholomy^sl" 

"  Long  live  Tholomytis  !  "  cried  Dahlia  and  Zephine. 

And  they  burst  into  laughter. 

Fantine  laughed  like  the  rest. 

An  hiiur  afterwards,  wiicn  she  had  re-entered  her  chaniber,  ."^ho  wept. 
It  waslier  (irst  love,  as  we  have  said  ;  she  had  given  herself  tt  thb 
Thalomy(>s  as  to  a  hu.sband,  and  the  poor  girl  had  a  child. 


TO  ENTRUST  IS  h^OMETIMES  TO  ABANDON. 

I. 

ONE  MOTHER  MEETS  ANOTHER. 

There  wa.«!,  during  the  fir.^t  qmirter  of  the  present  century,  at  Mnnt- 
formiel,  near  Paris,  a  sort  of  eliophouse  :  it  is  not  there  now.  It  was 
kept  by  a  man  and  his  wife,  named  Thcnanlier,  and  was  situiied  in  the 
lane  IJiiulanger.  Abnve  the  dnor,  ilniled  flat  against  the  will,  was  a 
board,  upon  which  something  wa<  painted  that  looked  like  a  man  carry- 
ing on  hi-<  back  another  man  wearing  tlie  heavy  epaulettes  of  a  general, 
gilt  an  1  with  large  silver  stirs  red  blotches  typified  blood;  the  remainder 
of  the  picture  was  smoke,  and  probably  rcpieseuted  a  battle.  Deucath 
wa-i  this  iascription  :  To  the  Sergea.nt  of  Waterloo. 


90  LES    MISKRAULES. 

N(iiliin7  is  commonor  llian  a  cart  or  wagon  bt-fore  iho  door  of  an  iun  ; 
ncv«rtIicle-8  the  vehicle,  or  m'«rc  pr«»perl>'  siK-akinp,  the  frapim  nt  of  a 
vehiultf  whivh  obstructrd  the  .street  in  front  of  the  Sergeant  of  Waterloo 
one  ovenini:  in  the  spring  of  181.'),  cer'aiiilv  would  have  attracted  ^y 
its  bulk  the  attention  of  any  painter  who  Mii;.'lit  have  been  pas>iiig. 

It  was  the  fiircearriagc  of  one  nf' those  drays  for  carrying  heav^ntarti- 
clec,  used  in  wooded  countries  for  transp  .rting  joists  and  trunks  of 
trees:  it  ei>«si.>ted  of  a  nias.sivc  iron  axle-tree  witb  a  pivot,  to  which  a 
heavy  pole  was  attached,  an<l  which  was  supported  by  two  enormous 
wheels.  As  a  whole,  it  was  S(|uut,  ci  U'hing  and  misshapen:  it  might 
have  been  fancied  a  gigantic  gun-caniuge     • 

The  roads  had  covered  the  wheels,  fillocs,  limbs,  axle  and  the  pole 
with  a  coaling  of  hideous  ycllowhued  mud,  .viuiiiar  in  lint  to  that  with 
which  cathedrals  are  soiiictimcs  decorated.  The  wood  had  di.-appcared 
J)cne;ith  mud,  and  the  iron  beneath  rust. 

Under  the  axlo-trcc  hung  feslooneda  huge  chain  fit  for  a  Goliath  of 
the  gall.  ys. 

Tliis  chain  recalled,  not  the  beams  which  it  was  used  to  carry,  but  the 
raastodoi  8  anil  niammotlus  which  it  might  have  harnessed  ;  it  reminded 
one  of  the  galleys,  but  of  cyclop'an  and  superhuman  galleys,  and  .seeiued 
as  if  uniivttcd  from  some  motis'cr.  Willi  it  Homer  could  have  boujid 
Polvjdieujus,  or  Shakspeare  (\ilib:in. 

\\'liy  was  this  vehicle  in  this  place  in  the  street  one  jnay  ask  ?  First 
to  obstruct  the  lane,  and  then  to  comjilete  its  work  of  rust.  There  is  in 
the  ol  i  soei.ll  order  a  host  of  instituttons  wliieh  we  find  li^e  this  across 
our  p^lh  in  the  full  light  of  day,  and  which  present  no  other  reasons  for 
bein;:   tliire. 

The  middle)  of  the  chain  was  hanging  quite  near  the  ground,  under 
the  ax'o;  i.nd  upon  the  bond,  as  on  a  swinging-rope,  two  little  giils  were 
Bcaled  that  evening  in  cxijuisife  grouping,  the  s:nallor,  eighteen  moutlu« 
ofd,  in  tlie  lap  of  the  larger,  who  was  two  years  and  a  half  old. 

A  ban  tkerehief  carefully  knotted  kept  ihem  from  falling.  A  mother, 
looking  ujion  this  fiighlful  chain,  had  said  :  "  Ah  I  there  is  a  playlhing 
for  my  chihlreii !  " 

^he  radiant  children,  picturesquely  and  tastefully  decked,  might  be 
fancied  two  roses  twining  the  rusty  iron,  wiih  their  triumphantly  spark- 
ling eyes,  and  their  blooming,  laughing  faces.  One  was  a  rosy  blonde, 
the  otiier-a  brunette ;  their  artless  faces  were  two  ravishing  surprises; 
the  p'-rfume  that  was  shed  upon  the  air  by  a  flowering  shrub  near  by 
Hcetned  their  own  oulbreathings.  Above  ami  around  these  delicate 
heads,  mgulded  in  hapjiincss  and  bathed -in  I'giit,  the  gigantic  carriajio, 
black  with  rust  and  almost  frightful  with  its  entangled  curves  and  ab- 
rupt Jingles,  arched  like  the  mouih  of  a  cavern. 

Th(!  mother,  a  woman  whose  appearance  was  rather  forbidding,  but 
tcucliing  at  this  moment,  was  sealed  on  the  sill  of  the  inn,  swinging  the 
two  children  by  a  long  string,  white  she  brooded  them  with  her  eyee  for 
fear  of  Jicci'leiit  with  that  animal  but  luavenly  expression,  peculiar  to 
maternity.  At  each  vibration,  the  hideous  links  utter«l  a  creaking 
noise  like  an  angry  cry;  the  little  oms  were  in  ecstacios,  the  setting 
Bun  mingled  in  the  joy,  and  nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  this 
caprice  of  chance  which  made  of' a  Titan's  chain  a  swing  for  cherubiin. 


FANTINE.  97 

While  rocking  the  babes,  the  mother  sang,  with  a  voice  out  of  tuuo, 
a  thoQ  popular  soug  : 

,   "II  le  faut,  disait  un  guerricr." 

Her  song  and  watching  her  children  prevented  her  hearing  and  seeing 
what  was  passing  in  the  street.  , 

Some  one,  however,  had  approached  as  she  was  brginning  the  first 
couplet  of  the  song,  and  suddenly  she  heard  a  vuicc  sayr  quite  near  her 
car : 

"  You  have  two  pretty  children  there,  madam." 

'*  A  la  belle  et  tendre  Imogine," 

answered  the  mother,  continuing  her  ^ong;  then  she  turned  her  hea&. 

A  woman  was  before  her  at  a  little  uistance;  she  also  had  a  child, 
whieh  she  bore  in  her  arms.  ^ 

She  was  carrying  in  addition  a  large  carpet  bag,  whieh  secn)ed  heavy. 

This  woman's  dii^d^was  one  of  the  divinest  beings  that  can  be  ima- 
gined, a  little  girl  of  two  or  three  years.  She  might  have  entered  the 
lists  with  the  other  little  ones  for  coquetry  of  attiie;  she  wore  a  head- 
dress of  fine  linen  ;  ribbons  at  her  shoulders  and  Valenciennes  lace  on 
her  cap.'  The  folds  of  her  skirt  were  raited  enough  to  show  her  plump, 
fine  white  leg:^she  was  charmingly  ro.sy  antl  healthful.  The  pretty 
little  creature  gave  one  a  desire  to  bite  her  cherry  cheeks  We  can  say 
nothing  of  her  eyes  except  that  they  must  have  been  very  large,  and 
were  fringed  with  superb  lashes      She  was  asleep. 

She  was  sleeping  in  the  absolutely  confiding  slumber  peculiar  to  her 
age.  Mothers'  arms  are  made  of  tendeiHicss,  and  sweet  sleep  Llesses  <hc 
child  who  lies  therein.  ^ 

As  to  the  mulher,  she  seemed  poor  and  sad ;  .>he  had  the  appearance  . 
of  a  working  womaii  who  is  seeking  to  reiuin  to  the  liJc  of  a  peasant. 
She  was  young, — and  pretty  ?•  It  was  possible,  but  iu  that  garb  beauty 
could  cot  be  displayed.  Her  hair,  one  blonde  mesh  of  whieh  had  fallen, 
seemed  very  thick,  but  it  was  severely  fastened  up  bcnejith  an  ugly, 
close,  narrow  nun's  head-dress,  tied  under  the  chin.  lianghing  show.s 
fine  teeth  when  one  his  them,  but  she  did*not  laugh.  Her  eyes,  seemed 
not  to  have  been  tearless  for  a  long  tinjc.  She  was  pale,  and  looked  very 
weary,  and  somewhat  siik.  She  gazed  upon  her  child,  sleeping  in  her 
arms,  with  that  peculiar  liok  which  only  a  mother  possesses  who  nurses 
her  own  child.  Her  form  was  clumsily  masked  by  a  large  blue  hand- 
kerchief folded  across  her  bosom.  Mcr  hands  were  tanned  and  spotted 
with  freckles,  the  forefinger  hardened  and  pricked  with  the  ucedle  ;  she 
wore  a  coarse  brown  delaine  mantle,  a  calico  dress,  and  large  heavy 
shoes.     It  was  Fantine. 

Yes,  Fantine  Hard  to  recognize,  yet,  on  looking  altojitively,  you 
saw  that  she  still  retained  her  beauty.  A  sad  line,  such  as  is  formed  by 
irony,  hyd  marked  her  right  cheek  A»  to  her  toilette — that  airy  toilette 
of  mu.slin  and  ribbons  whieh  seemed  as  if  made  c)f  gaiety,  fol'y  and  music, 
fu'l  of  baubles  and  perfumed  with  lilacs  — that  had  vanished  like  the 
beautiful  spiukling  hoar-frost,  which  we  take  for  diamonds  in  the  sud  ; 
they  melt,  and  leave  the  braueh  dreary  and  black. 

Ten  months  had  slipped  aw?iy  bince  "  the  good  farce." 


I 


98  LE8    MIS^RADLES. 

WliiiJ  had  pafiscJ  Juiin^  tiicse  ten  montliK?     Wc  can  pliops. 

Aflcr  reckU'.sMiu.-;*.  Ir.  ubie.  Faiiliiu-  liml  loxt  sijxht  of  Kavourito,  Zo- 
pluuc  und  D.ilili-t ;  the  tie,  bntkcn  on  ilic  part  of  the  uicn,  \v;ifi  unloosed 
on  the  part  of  the  women  ;  they  wnuKl  liavc  been  astonished  if  any  one 
bad  said  a  rorinij;ht  afterwards  th:il  they  were  friends;  tliey  had  no 
longer  cause  to  be  so*  Fanliiie  was  left  alone  The  father  of  her  child 
gone — iilas  !  such  par'ings  are  irrevocable  —  .'*hc  found  herself  absolutely 
isitlati'd,  with  the  habif  of  labor  li>sf,  und  the  taste  for  plea>urc  »e(|uired. 
I^id  by  licr  liaison  with  'J  hii|nni36.s  t(»  disdain  the  small  business  that  sho 
knew  how  to  do,  she  had  ue;:lucled  her  (ipporluniiies,  they  were  nil  gone. » 
No  resource."  raniiiie  could  scarcely  read,  and  did  nut  know  how  lo  write. 
She  had  fiuly  been  taught  in  chiidhooii  how  ro  .-ij:n  her  name.  She  had 
a  letter  written  by  a  public  letter-writer  to  Thulom^es,  then  a  second, 
then  a  third.  Thulnniyi's  hud  replied  to  none  of  them.  One  day,  F.iu- 
tine  heard  ,sonie  old  wiyneu  sayini:,  a<  they  saw  her  child  :  "  Do  people 
ever  take  such  chiMreu  to  heart';'  They  only  sluuj:  their  shoulders  at 
8ucli  children!"  Then  she  thoiifiht  of  'J'hnlnin^es,  who  shruggid  his 
bh'iuldcrs  at  his  child,  and  who  did  not  take  the  innocent  child  lo  heart,  " 
and  her  heart  became  dark  in  the  place  that  wan  hi.s.  What  should  she 
do?  She  had  no  one  to  ask.  t^hc  had  committed  a  fault;  but,  in  the 
depih.s  of  her  nature,  we  know  dwelt  modesty  and  viriue.  She  had  a 
vague  feeling  that  bhe  was  on  the  eve  ol'  faflini;  into  distress,  of  slip- 
ing  into  tlie  street.  She  must  have  courage;  she  had  it,  and  bore  up 
ravely.     The  idea  occurred   to  her  of  returning  to   her   native  vi'Iago 

M Bur  M .there  perhaps  some  one  woiTld  know  lier,  and  give 

her  work.  Yes,  but  she  must  hide  her  fault.  And  she  had  a  confu.sed 
glimp.se  of  the  possible  uece.ssit/of  a  separation  still  more  paintui  tiian 
^he  iirst.  Her  heart  ached,  but  hhe  took  her  rcsolu'ion.  It  will  be 
seen  that  Fautine  possessed  the  stern  courage  of  life.  She  had  already 
valiantly  renounced  her  finery,  was  draped  in  calico,  and  put  all  her 
Bilks,  her  gewgaws,  her  ribbons  and  lacCs  on  her  daught.'r — the  only 
vanity  ihat  remained,  and  that  a  holy  one.  She  sold  a'l  she  had,  which 
gave  her  twir  hundred  francs;  when  her  little  debts  were  paid,  she  had 
but  about  eighty  left.  At  twenty-two  years  of  age,  on  a  6nc  spring 
niorniiijf,  she  leli  J'j^ris,  carrying  her  child  on  hei-  back.  He  who  had 
seen  the  two  passing,  must  haVe  pitied  ihein.  The  woman  had  nothing 
iq  the  world  but  this  child,  and  this  child  had  nothing  in  the  world  but 
this  Woman.  Fantine  had  nurseil  her  child;  that  liad  weakemd  her 
chest  soni'  wh.it,  and  she  coughed  slightly. 

'  We  shall  have  no  further  need  to  speak  of  M.  Felix  Tholomyes  Wo 
will  only  say  here,  that  twen'y  years  later,  undel"  King  Louis  I'liilippe, 
he  was  a  fat  provincial  attorni  y,  rich  andinfluential,  a  wise  elector  and 
rigid  juryman  ;   always,  however,  a  man  of  pleasure. 

Toward.s  noon,  after  having,  for  the  sake  of  rest,  travelled  from  time 
to  time  j«i  aeost  of  three  or  four  cents  a  league,  in  what  they  called  then 
the  IV'tites  Voitures  of  the  envir<)ns  of  Paris,  Famine  reached  Mont- 
fermeil,  uud  stood  in  Houlungcr  lane. 

As  she  was  pa<.-ing  by  tl  e  Ther.ardier  chop  house,  the  two  little  chil- 
dren sitting  in  delight  on   their  nionstr  us  swing,  had  a  sort  of  dazzling  ' 
cffeel  upon  her,  and  she  paused  before  this  joyous  vi.-ion. 

There  are  charms.     These  two  littlegirls  were  one  for  this  tuother. 


0  FANTIXK.  99 

She  beheld  thom  with  emotion.  The  presence  of  angels  is  a  heriild  of 
pararlise.  She  thought  she  sav^  above  this  inu  the  mysterious  "  HEKE" 
of  l*rovidtnco.  Thi'se  children  were  e\'idently  happy:  she  gazed  upon 
them,  .she  admired  them,  so  mneh  affected,  that  at  the  moment  when 
the  mother  wa?  taking  breath  HlFtweeu  the  verses  of  her  song,  .she  could 
uot  help  saying  what  we  \^■^\•^  been  reading, 

"  You  have  two  pretty  children  rfhere,  madam  " 

The  most  fcrocrous  animals  are  di.sarmed  by  caresses  to  their  young. 

TI>o  mother  raised  her  head  aild"  thanked  her,  and  made  the  "stranger 
sit  down  on  tho  st<ine  step,  she  herself  being  on  the  doorsill :  the  two 
women  began  to  talk  together.  ^^         . 

"My  name  is  Madame  'rhcuardier,"  said  the  mother  of  the  tJP%irls: 
"we  keep  this  fnn." 

Then  going  on  with  her  song,  she  sang  between  her  teeth  : 

"  II  le  faut.Je  suia  cbcv.alier, 
Et  jcpars  pour  l.a  Palestine." 

•.This  Madame  Thenardier  was  a  red-haired,  brawny,  angular  woman, 
of  tho  poldier's  wifc  type  in  all  if.s  horror  :  and,  singularly  enough,  she 
had  a  lolling  air  whieh  she  had  jrained  from  novel-reading.  She  was  a 
masculine  lackadaisiealness.  Old  romances  impressed  on  the  imagina- 
tions of  mistresses  of  chop-houses  have  such  effects.  She  was  still 
5^oung,  scared}'  thirty  years  old  If  this  woman,  who  ivas  seati  d  stoop- 
ing, had  been  upiight,  perhaps  her  towering  form  and  her  broad  shoulders, 
those  of  a  movable  colossus,  fit  fvr  a  market-woman,  would  have  dis- 
mayed the  traveller,  disturbed'  her  confidence,  and  prevented  what  we 
liave  to  relate.  A  person  seated  instead  of  standing;  fato  hangs  on  such 
a  thread  as  that. 

The  traveller  told  her  story,  a  little  modifio<l 

She  said  she  was  a  workinir  woman,  and  her  husband  was  dead.  Not 
being  able  to  procure  work  in  Paris  she  was  goins  in  search  of  it  else- 
where; in  her  own  province;  that  she  had  left  Paris  that  morning  on 
foot  ;  that  carrying  her  child  she  had  become  fired,  ami  meeting  the 
A'illemomble  stage  had  srot  in  :  that  frr)m  Yillemomble  she  had  come  on 
foot  to  Montfermeil  ;  that  the  child  had  walked  a  little,  but  not  much, 
she  was  so  young;  that  she  was  compelled  to  carry  her,  and  the  jewel 
had  fallen  asleep. 

And  at  these  words  .she  give  her  daughter  a  passionate  kiss,  which 
wakcued  her.  The  chiM  opened  its  large  blue  eyes  like  its  mother's, 
and  saw  —  what?  Nothing,  everything,  with  that  serious  and  sonict'mes 
.severe  air  of  little  children,  which  is  one  of. the  mysteries  «f  their  shining 
innocence  before  our  shadowy  virtues.  One  would  say  that  they  f<dt 
them.selves  to  be  angels,  and  knew  us  to  be  human  Then  the;  chiM 
began  to  laugh,  and,  although  the  mother  restrained  her,  slipped  to  tho 
ground,  with  the  imlomilable  ener^'y  of  a  little  one  that  wants  to  run 
about.  All  at  once  she  prrceived  tho  two  others  in  their  swing,  stopped 
short,  and  put  oat  her  tongue  in  token  of  admiration.* 

Moiher  Thenardier  untied  the  children  and  took  them  from  the  swing, 
sajinji: 

'■  Play  together,  al^  three  of  you  " 

At  that  age  acquainliDce  is  easy,  and  in  a  monieDt  the  little  Thenar- 


100  LE5    MIS^RABLBS.^ 

diets  were  pla^inj;  with  the  new  comer,  making  holes  in  the  ground  to 
thi'ir  intense  dc)i>:lit. 

This  new  comi-r  was  very  sprightly  :  the  froodncss  of  the  mother  is 
writirn  in  the  gaiety  of  the  cliiM  ;  .she  had  taken  a  splintcf  uf  wood, 
which  she  used  as  a  spade,  and  was  stiHtly  digixinj^  a  hole  fit  fur  a  fly. 
The  gtave-digger's  fork  is  charming  whcu^one  by  a  child. 

U'lu"  t  *()  women  continued  lo  cliat.  . 

"  Wliat  do  you  call  your  brati*  " 

"  Cusetle  " 

For"(\)<ctte  read  Euphrasie.  "I'ho  name  of  the  little  one  was  Kuphr:\>io. 
,But  t^B  nu^fher  had  n;«de  Cosettc  out  of  it.  by  that  pweet  and  charming 
iDHtiifi^f  mothers  and  of  the  pcple,  who  cliange  Jtl'sefa  into  J'cpitu, 
and  Kran<v)ise  into  Sillettc  That  is  a  kind  of  derivation  which  d»raiigc8 
and  disconcertti  all  the  science  of  otymologiss.  We  knew  a  grandmother 
who  succeeded  in  making  from  Theodore,  CJuon. 

"  Hew  old  is  she  ?  " 

"She  is  going  on  iIkcc  years." 

"The  ■.■.•^■2  of  my  oldest."  ,• 

The  three  girls  Were  grouped  in  an  attitude  of  deep  anxiety  and  bliss; 
a  great  event  had  occurred  ;  a  lar.'C  worm  had  come  out  of  the  ground; 
they  were  afraiil  of  it,  and  yet  in  ecstacies  over  it. 

Thiir  bright  foreheads  touched  each  other:  three  heads  in  one  halo 
of  glory. 

'•  Children,"  exclaimed  the  Theiiardier  mother;  "how  soon  they 
know  one  another.  See  them  I  One  would  swear  they  were  three 
Bisters." 

These  words  were  the  spark  which  the  other  mother  was  probably 
awaiting.     She  seized  the  hand  of  Madame  Thcnardier,  and  said  : 

"  Will  you  keep  my  child  for  me?" 

Madame  Thcnardier  made  a  motion  of  surprise,  which  was  neither 
coD.sent  ndV  refusal. 

Cosettc's  mother  contiiuod  : 

"You  Koe  I  canu'it  take  my  jliild  into  the  country.  Work  forbids  it. 
With  a  child  I  could  not  tJnd  a  place  there;  they  arc  so  absurd  in  thit 
district.  It  \i  (,»od  wlo)  has  led  me  before  your  inn.  The  sight  uf  your 
little  ones,  so  pretty,  and  cK'an,  and  happy,  has  overwhelmed  me.  I 
Said,  there  is  a  good  ujoth.r;  .thty  will  be  like  three  sister.'^,  and  then 
it  will  not  be  long  before  1  come  back.  Will  you  keep  uiy  child  for 
me?" 

"  I  must  think  over  it,"  said  Thenardl&r. 

"  I  will  give  six  francs  a  month." 

Here  a  man's  voice  was  heard  frnui  within  : 

"  Nt)t  less  than  seven  francs,  and  six  monlus'  pay  in  advance.'' 

"Six  time."  seven  are  firty-two,"  said  Thcnardier. 

"I  wi'l  yive  it,"  said  the  mother. 

"  And  fifteen  francs  extra  for  the  first  expense^,"  added  the  man. 

"That's  Ulty-.sdven  francs,"  said  Mrs.  Thcnardier,  and  in  the  midst  of" 
her  reckoning  she  sang  indistinctly  : 

"  11  le  fiiut,  disftit  un  guerrier." 
"  I  will  give  it,"  .said  the  molhcr;   "I  have  cigfity  francs.     That  will 


FANTINE.  101 

leave  mo  enough  to  go  into  the  country  if  I  walk.  I  will  earn  somo 
money  there,  and  aw  soon  as  I  litivo  I  will  come  for  my  little  love." 

Th(3  man's  voice  returned  : 

"  lias  the  child  a  wardrobe  ?" 

"That  is  my  hnsband,"  .'■aid  Thcnardicr. 

"  Certainly  she  has,  the  poor  darling.  I  knew  it  was  your  husband. 
And  a  fine  wardrobe  it  is  too,  an  extravaj^ant  wardrobe,  everytlijng  in 
dozens,  and  silk  dresses  like  a  lady       They  are  there  in  my  carp*  bag." 

"  You  must  leave  that  here,"  put  in  chc  man's  voice. 

'*  Of'  course  T  shall  give  it  to  you,"  said  tbe  mo:.herj'"it  trould  bo 
strange  if  I  should  leave  my  chiUl  naked.'' 

The  face  of  the  master  appeared. 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  he. 

The. bargain  was  concluded.  The  mother  passed  the  night  at  the  inn, 
gave  her  money  and  left  her  child,  fastening  again  her  carpet  bag,  di- 
minished by  her  child's  ypardrobc,  and  very  light  now,  and  set  off  next 
moTDing,  expecting  soon  to  return.  These  partings  arc  arranged 
tranquilly,  but  they  are  full  of  despair. 

A  neighbor  of  the  Thenardiers  met  this  mother  on  her  way,  and  came 
in,  saying  : 

"I  have  just  met  a  woman  in  the  street,  who  was  crying  as  if  her 
heart  would  break." 

When  Cosctte's  mother  had  gone,  the  man  said  to  his  wife  : 

''That  will  do  me  for  my  note  of  110  francs  which  falls  due  to-mor- 
row ;  I  WAS  fifty  francs  short.  Do  yot?  know  I  should  have  had  a 
sheriff  and  a  protest?  You  have  proved  a  good  mouse-trap  with  your 
little  ones  "  ' 

"  Without  knowing  it,"   said  the  woman.  ' 


II. 

FIRST    SKETCH    OF    TWO    EQUIVOCAL    FACES. 

The  captured  mouse  was  a  very  puny  on^,  but  the  cat  exulted  even 
over  a  lean  mouse. 

What  were  the  Thenardiers  ? 

AVe  will  say  but  a  word  just  here;  b3'-andby  the  sketch  shall  be 
completed. 

They  belonged  to  that  bastard  class  formed  of  low  people  who  have 
lisen,  Hud  intelligent  people  who  have  fallen,  which  lits  between  the 
classes  c:illcd  middle  and  lower,  and  which  unites  some  of  the  faults  of 
the  latter  with  nearly  all  the  vices  of  the  former,  withoHt  possessing 
the  generous  impulses  of  the  workman,  or  the  respectability  of  the 
bourgeois. 

They  were  of  those  dwarfish  natures,  which,  if  perchance  headed  by 
.come  sullr:n  fire,  easily  become  monstrous  The  woman  was  at  heart  a 
brute  ;  the  man  a  blackguard  :  both  «i  the  highest  degree  capable  of 
that  hideous  .species  of  progress  which  can  be  made  towardsfiGTil.  There 
are  snuls  winch,  crab  like,  crawl  conlinuall}'  towards  darkncs-",  gofng 
back  in  life  rather  than  advancing  in  it;   using  what  experience  they 


102  LES    MI8KRABLE8. 

have  to  incretse  their  tleformity  ;  growing  w  >rse  «?iiliout  ceaj»inp,  and 
bccoiiiiDg  Biecp''d  iixirc  an<l  iiKirc  iborouglily  in  an  iDt«n»ir3iu^  wicked- 
ncs«.     i'ucli  Knuls  w<  re  liiiis  man  and  lliis  wnman. 

The  ni:in  osptiially  Would  have  been  u  puzzle  to  a  ph)siognonii>t, 
W'c  fiavc-  only  i'>  look  at  Homc-mcn  to  disirust  them,  tor  we  feel  the 
darkness  of  tlu-ir  souls  in  two  ways.  Thc\  arc  rostle.>»s  n-j  to  what 
is  behind  them,  and  threatining  an  to  wii.it  is  before  ihcro.  They 
are  fu!W>f  mystery.  We  can  no  more  :inswcr  for  what  they  have  done  than 
for  what  thiy  will  do.  The  (-hudow  in  tlu-ir  locks  denouoc-cs  ihun.  If  we 
bear  theni  utter  a  word,  or  see  tlicm  make  a  gf.slure,  we  catch  •:liinp*c8 
of  uuilly  8('cret.s  iu  their  paf^t,  and  dal-k   mysteries  in   their  future. 

Tlii8  Tiienardier,  if  wu  may  believe  him,  had  been  a  mildier,  a 
Bcrj^iant  he  said;  he  prob.ibly  had  n)ade  the  campaij^n  of  I8I0,  and 
hail  even  borne  himself  bravely  according  to  all  that  iipponrod  Wc 
shall  sec  berea-fter  in  what  hi.s  bravery  ccmsisttd.  The  ^ijin  of  his 
inn  was  an  allusion  to  one  of  his  feats  of  arms.  He  had  painted  it 
himself,  for  he  knew  liow  to  do  a  little  of  e-verythin;;— badly. 

It  was  the  time  when  the  antique  clast-ioal  romance,  which,  after 
having  been  Cttlie,  sank  to  L'tdo'inki,  always  noble,  but  becoming 
more  and  tnore  vulgar,  fulling  froui  Mdlle.  dc  ^!cuderi  to  Madam*'. 
Bournon-Malarme,  and  from  Madame  dc  Lifayettc  to  Madame  Harih(M-. 
eniy-lladot,  was  firing  the  lovinji  souls  of  the  porlre^srs  of  Paris,  and 
making  some  ravag's  even  in  the  fubutbs.  Madame  Theuardier  was 
just  intellig  nt  enough  to  read  that  sort  of  fcooks.  She  fed  on  them. 
Siie  ilrowued  what  little  braitushe  had  in  them;  and  that  had  given 
her,  while  she  was  yet  young,  and  even  iu  later   life,  a  kind  of  ptisivo 

'altitude.  She  was  twelve  or  lifteen  jears  younger  than  her  hu.-hand. 
At  a  later  period,  when  the  hair  of  the  romantic  weepers  began  to  grow 
grey,  when  .^le^erc  parted  company  with  Pamela,  Madame  Thenardier 
was  only  a  gross  bad  woman  wlu»  hud  relished  ^tupi(^  novels.  Now, 
people  do  not.  read  s'upiuiiies  with  impunity.  The  result  was  that  her 
eldest  child  was  named  Epouiue,  ami  the  youngest,  who  hud  just  es- 
caped being  called  (Julnare,  owed  to  some  happy  diversion  made  by  a 
novel  of  Uucray  Duminil,  the  mitigation  i>f  Az«'lma. 

However,  let  us  say  by  the  way,  all  things  are  not  ridiculous  and 
superficial  in  this  singular  epoch  to  which  we  allmle,  and  which  might 
be  termed  the  anarchy  of  baptismal. names.  Hesidcs  this  romantic  elo- 
ment  which  \wo  have  noticed,  there  is  the  social  symptom.  To  day  it  i.s 
not  unfr»(|uent  to  hce  h' rdnboys  named  Arthur,  Allied,  and  Alphonso, 
and  viscounts— if  there  be  any  rcumining— named  Thomas,  Peter  or 
James.  This  change,  which  places  the  "elegant"  name  on  the  plebeian 
and  the  country  ap|K;llation  on  the  aristocrat,  ia  only  an  eddy  in  the 
tide  of  e'juality. 


IIP 

THK    I,.VUIt. 

To  be  wicked  doe.s  not  insure  prosperity — for  the  inn  did  not  succeed 
well. 

Thanks  to  Funtine's  fifty-seven  franco*  Tbenardicr  bad   been  able  to 


FANTINE.  103 

avoid  a  protest  and  to  honor  bis  sigjiature.  The  next  month  tlioy  were 
still  in  need  of  money,  and  the  woman  carried  Cosette's  wardnibe  to 
Pari.s  and  pawned  it  for  sixty  fiaiu'S.  When  this  sum  was  spoit,  the 
Tlionardiers  began  to  look  upon  the  little  girl  as  a  child  which  they  shel- 
foied  for  charity,  and  treated  her  as  puch.  Ilcr  clo'thes  being  gone," 
thiy  dressed  her  in  the  cast  off  garments  of  the  liltle  Thenardicrs,  that 
is  in  rags.  They  fod  her  on  the  odds  and  ends,  a  lutle  bLtter  than  the 
dog,  and  a  lit'le  worse  than  the  cat  The  dog  ar.d  cat  were  her 
messmates,  Cosette  ate  with  thetn  under  the  tub]o,  in  a  wooden  dish 
like  theirs 

Her  moklier,  as  we  shall  see  hereaficr,  who  h-id  found  a  place  at  M 

sur  M ,  wrote,  or  rather  had  some  one  write   for  her,  every  mnnfh, 

incjuiring  for  news  of  her  chjld.     The  Thenardicrs  replied  invariably  : 

"  (^osette  is  doing  wonderfully  well." 

The  six  months  passed  awa^  :  the  mother  sent  j^cven  francs  for  the 
seventh  month,  afld  continued  to  send  this  sum  regularly  month  after 
mouth.  The  year  was  not  ended  bcforo  Tlienanliers  said  :  "A  pretty 
price  that  is.  What  does  she  expect  us  to  do  for  her  seven  francs?" 
And  ho  wrote  demanding  twelve  francs.  The  mother,  whom  hv  por- 
FUadcd  that  her  child  was  h;ippy  and~  doing  well,  assented,  and  for- 
warded the  twelve  francs 

■  There  are  certain  natures  which  cannot  have  fove  on  one  side  wiihoat 
hatred  on.  the  other.  This  Thenardier  mother  passionately  loved  her 
own  little  ones  :  this  made  her  detest  the  joung  stranger.  It  is  sad  to 
think  that  a  another's  love  can  have  such  a  dark  side.  Little  as  was.  the 
place  Cosette  occupied  in  the  house,  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  little 
was  taken  from  her  children,  and  that  the  little  one  lessened  the  air 
hers  bnathcd.  This  woman,  like  many  women  of  her  lind,  had  a  cer- 
tain aint)unt  of  caresses  and  blows,  an!  hard  words  to  dispense  ea-h  (hiy. 
If  she  had  not  had  Cosette,  it  is  certain  that  her  daughters,  ido.izcd  as 
tht-y  were,  would  have  received  all,  but  the  little  stranger  did  them  the 
servivie  to  attract  the  blows  to  herself^  her  children  had  only  th--  caresses. 
(\)S(tte  could  not  stir  that  she  did  nnt  draw  down  upon  herself  a  hail- 
storm of  undeserved  and  severe  chastisements.  ■  A  weak,  soft  little  one 
who  knew  nothing  of  tliis  world,  or  of  Cod,  continually  ill-tn  ated, 
scolded,  punished,  beaten,  she  saw  beside  her  two  other  young  things 
liki-  III  iself,  who  lived  in  a  hnio  of  glory  ! 

f  The  wonian  was  unkind  to  Cosette  ;  Kponine  and  Azelma  were  un- 
kind ;dso.  Children  at  that  age  are  onjy  copies  of  the  mother;  the 
.MZi-  is  reduced,  that  is  all.  « 

A  year  passed  and  then  another. 

IVdph:  used  to  s.iy  in  the  village  :  . 

"  U  hat  good  people  tliest-  Th  nardiers  are!  They  arc  not  rit;h^  end 
yet  :hey  brirg  up  a  poor  chili,  that  has  been  left  with  them." 

Tli»y  thought  Ci>setfc  was  forgotten  by  her  nmther. 

Meantime  Thenardier,  having  learned  in  some  obscure  way  that  the 
child  vviis  |>r(ib:«bly  illegilim.tic,  and  that  its  mother  couM  not  acknow- 
ledge if,  demanded  fifteen  francs  a  month,  saying  "that  the  'creature' 
was  grc.wing  and  eating,"  and  thieatcning  to  send  her  aw;^.  "  She 
won't  huiubUj:  uie,"  be  exclaimed  j   "  I  will  confound  her  wiCh  the  brat  ia 


104  LES    MISKRABLES. 

the  midst  of  her  concealiftcut.  I  must  have  more  money."  The  mother 
paid  the  Bftccn  francs. 

From  jcar  to  your  the  child  grew,  and  her  misery  also. 

iSo  Ion"  as  Co.settc  was  very  small,  she  was  the  scapegoat  of  the  two 
other  children  ;  as  soon  as  she  began  to  grow  a  little,  th;i.t  is  to  say, 
befcre  .she  was  five  years  old,  she  became  the  servant  of  the  house.    . 

Five  years  old,  ifwill  be  said,  that  is  improbable.  Alas  I  it  is  true, 
social  suffering  begins  at  all  ages.  Have  we  not  seen  lately  the  trial  of 
Diimollard,  an  orphan  become^a  bandit,  who,  from  the  age  of  five,  say 
the  official  documents,  being  alone  in  the  world,  *'  worked  for  his  living 
and  stole  ! "   .  •  -  •       * 

Cosette  was  made  to  run  of  errands,  sweep  the  rooms,  the  yar-d,  the 
street,  wash  the  dishes,  and  even  carry  burdens.  The  Thenaidiers  felt 
doiAly  authorized  to  treat  her  thus,  as  the  mother,  who  still  remained  at 

M pur  M ,  began  to  be  remiss  in  her  payments.     Some  months 

remained  due. 

Had  this  mother  returned  to  Montfermiel  at  the  end  of  these  three 
years  she  would  not  have  known  her  child;  Cosette,  so  fresh  and  pretty 
.when  she  came  to  that  house,  was  now  thin<ind  wan.  She  had  a  peculiar 
restless  air.     Sly  !  said  the  Thenardiers. 

Injui-tice  had  made  l^er  sullen,  and  misery  had  made  her  ugly.  Her 
fine  eyes  only  remaiued  to  her,  and  they  were  painful  to  luuk  at,  for, 
large  as  thej  were,  they  si^eined  to  increase  the  sadness  ! 

It  was  a  harrowing  sight  to  see  in  the  winter  time  the  poor  child,  not 
yet  six  years  old,  shivering  under  the  tatters  of  what  was  once  a  calico 
dress,  sweeping  the  street  before  daylight,  with  an  eoornious  broom  in 
her  little  red  hands  and  tears  in  her  large  eyes. 

In  the  p'ace  she  was  called  the  Lark.  People  like  figurative  names, 
and  were  pleased  thus  to  name  this  little  being,  not  lai-ger  than  a  bird, 
trembling,  frightened  and  shivering,  awake  every  morning  first  of  all  in 
the  house  and  the  village,  always  in  the  street  or  in  the  fields  before 
dawn. 

Only  the  poor  lark  never  sang. 


ISoot  Jfifti). 

THE   DESCENT. 

I. 

HISTORY   OF   AN    IMPROVEMKNT   IN   JET-WORK. 

What  had  Jbecomc  of  this  mother,  in  the  meanwhile,  who,  according  to 
the  pef)ple  of  Montfermeil  seen)cd  to  have  abandoned  her  child  ?  where 
was  she  i*  ^vhat  was  she  doing  ? 

After  leaving  her  little  Co.settc  with  the  Thenardiers,  she  went  on  her 
way  and  arrived  at  M sur  M . 


FANTINE.  ■      105 

This,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  in  1818. 

Fantine  had  left  the  province  some  twelve   3'ears  before,  and  M- 


sur   M had  greatly  changed  in   appearance.     While   Fantine  had 

been  slowly  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  misery,  her  native  village 
had  ho.Qjfi  prosperous.  •■ 

Within  about  two  years  there  had  been  accomplished  there  one  of 
tlirtse  industrial  chanires  which  arc  the  great  events  of  small  communities. 

This  circumstance  is  important  and  wo  think  it  well  to  relate  it,  we 
might  even  say  to  ita-licize  it. 

I'Vom  time  immemorial  the  special  occupation  of  the  inhabitanta  of 

M sur  M had  been  the  iniitation  of  Fnglish  jets  and  Geroian 

black  glass  trinkets.  The  business  had  always  been  dull  in  consequence 
of  the  high  price  of  the  raw  material,  which  reacted  upon  the  nianufac-' 

ture.     At  the  time  of  Fantine's  return  to  M surM an  eatire 

(ransformafion  had  been  effected  in  the  production  of  these  "black 
goods."  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1815,  an  unknown  man  had 
established  himself  in  the  city,  and  Inid  copceivcd  the  idea  of  substituting 
guni-lac  fur  rtsin  in  the  maniifacture ;  and  for  bracelets,  in  particular, 
he  made  the  clasps  by  simply  bending  the  ends  of  the  metal  together, 
instead  of  soldering  them. 

This  very  slight  change  had  worked  a  revolution. 

This  very  slight  change  bad  in  fact  reduced  the*price  of  the  raw  ma- 
terial enormously-,  aLd  this  had  n^ndered  it  i)ossible,  6rst,  to  raise  the 
wages  of  the  laborer — a  benefit  to  tiio  country — secondly,  to  improve  the 
quality  of  the  goods — an  advantage  for  the  consumer— and  thirdly,  to 
sell  them  at  a  lower  price  even  while  making  three  limes  the  profit — a 
gain  for  the  manufacturer. 

Thus  we  have  three  results  from  one  idea. 

In  less  than  three  years  the  inventor  of  this  process  had  become  rich, 
which  was  well,  and  had  made  all  around  him  rich,  which  was  better. 
He  was  a  stranger  in  thf  Department.  Nothing  was  known  of  his 
birth,  and  little  of  his  early  history 

The  story  went  that  he  came  to  the  city  with  very  little  money,  a  few 
hundred  francs  at  most. 

From  this  slender  capital,  under  the  inspiration -of  an  ingenious  idea, 
ipade  fruitful  by  order  and  care,  he  had  drawn  a  fortune  for  himself,  and 
a  fortune  for  the  whole  region. 

■    On  his  arrival  at  M sur  M ,  ho  had  the  dress,  the  manners, 

and  the  language  of  a  laborer  only. 

It  seems  that  the  very  day  on  which   he  thus  obscurely  entered  the 

little  city  of  M sur   M ,  just  at  dusk  on  a  December  evening, 

with  his  bundle  on  his  back,  and  a  (horn  stick  in  his  hand,  a  great  fire 
had  broken  out  in  the  town-house.  This  man  rushed  into  the  fire,  and 
saved,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  two  children,  who  proved  to  be  those  of 
the  captain  of  the  gendarmerie,  and  in  the  hurry  and  gratitude  of  the 
ujoment  no  one  thought  to  ask  him  for  his  passport,  lie  was  known 
from  that  time  by  (he  name  of  Father  Madeleine. 

8    . 


106  LES    MISBRABLES. 

II. 

MADELEINE. 

••  Tie  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  who  always  appeared  to  be  pre-gccupied 
in  min'J,  and  who  was  good  natured  ;   this  was  all   that  could  be  said 
about  him. 
'Thanks  to  the  rapid   progress  of  this  raanufuctur'e,  to  which  he  had 

fivca  such  wonderful  life,  M sur  M had  become  a  considerable 

centre  of  busiqcss.  Immense  "purchases  were  niade  there  every  year  for 
t-he  Spanish  markets,  where  there  ira  large  demand  f  r  jet  work,  and 
M sur  M ,  in  this  branch  of  trade,  almost  competed  with  Lon- 
don and  Berlin.  The  proSts  of  Father  Madeleine  were  so  great  that, 
by  tb(  end  of  the  second  year,  he  was  able  to  build  a  large  factory,  in 
which  there  were  two  immense  workshops,  one  for  men  and  the  other 
fofwomen  :  whoever  was  needy  could  go  there,  and  be  sure  of  finding 
work  and  wages.  Father  Madeleine  required  the  men  to  be  willing,  the 
women  to  be  of  good  morals,  and  all  to  be  honest.  He  divided"  the 
workshops,  and  separated  the  sexes  in  order  that  the  girls  and  the  wo- 
men might  not  lose  their  modesty.  On  this  point  he  was  inflexible, 
although  it  was  the  only  one  in  which  he  was  in  any  degree  rigid.  Ho 
was  confirmed  in  thi«  severity  by  the  opportunities  for  corruption  that 

abounded   in   M sur   M ,  it  being  a  garrisoned  city.     Finally, 

his  coming  had  been  a  beneficence,  and  his  presence  was  a  providence. 
Before  the  arrival  of  Father  Madeleine,  the  whole  region  was  languish- 
inof;  now  it  was  all  alive  with  the  healthy  strength  of  labor.  An  active 
circulatiofi  kindled  every  thing  and  penetrated  every  where.  Idleness 
and  misery  were  unknown.  There  was  no  pocket  so  obscure  that  it 
did  not  contain  some  money  and  no  dwelling  so  pooi'  that  it  was  not  the 
abode  of  some  joy. 

Father  Madeleine  employed  every  body ;  he  had  only  one  condition, 
"  Be  an  honest  man  !  "   "  Be  an  honest  woman  !  " 

As  we  have  said,  in  the  midst  of  this  activity,  of  which  he  was  the 
cause  and  the  pivot,  Father  Madeleine  had  made  his  fortune,  but,  very  . 
strangely  for  a  mere  man  of  business,  that  did  not  appear  to  be  his  prin- 
cipal care.  It  seemed  that  he  thought  much  of  others,  and  little  ^ 
himself.  In  1820,  it  was  known  that  he  had  six  hundred  and  thirty 
thousand  francs  standing  to  his  credit  in  the  banking-house  of  ]iaffitte-; 
but  before  setting  aside  this  six  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs  for 
himself,  he  had  expended  more  than  a  million  for  the  city  and  for  the 
poor. 

The  hospital  was  poorly  endowed,  and  he  made  provision  for  ten  addi- 
tional beds.     M sur   M is  divided  into  the  upper  city  and   the 

lower  city.  The  lower  city,  where  he  lived,  had  only  one  school-house, 
a  miserable  hovel,  which  was  fast  going  to  ruin  ;  he  built  two,  one  for 
girls  and  the  other  for  boys,  and  paid  the  two  teachers,  from  his  own 
pocket,  double  the  amount  of  their  meagre  salary  from  the  government; 
and  one  day,  he  said  to  a  neighbor  wlio  expressed  surprise  at  this  :  "  The 
two  highest  functionaries  of  the  State  are  the  nurse  and  the  schoolmas- 
ter."  He  built,  at  his  own  expense,  a  house  of  refuge,  an  institution 
then  almost  unknown  in  France,  and  provided  a  fund  for  old  and  infirm 


FANTINE.  •  107 

laborers.  About  his  factory,  as  a  ccutre,  a  new  quarter  of  the  cify  had 
rapidly  grown  up,,  containing  many  indigent  families,  and  he  established 
a  pharmacy  that  was  free  to  all. 

At  first,  when  he  began  to  attract  the  public  attention,  the  good  people 
would  say  :  "  This  is  a  fellow  who  wishes  to  get  riidi."  When  they  saw 
him  enrich  the  country  before  he  enriched  himself,  the  same  good  people 
said  :  *'  This  man  is  ambitious."  This  seemed  the  more  probable,  since 
he  was  religious,  and  observed  the  forms  of  the  church,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, a  thing  much  approved  in  those  days,  lie  went  regularly  to  hear 
mass  every  Sunday.  The  local  deputy,  who  scented  rivalry  everywhere, 
was  not  slow  to  borrow  trouble  on  account  of  Madeleine's  religion.  This 
deputy,  who  had  been  a  member  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  of  the  Empire, 
partook  of  the  religious  ideas  of  a  Falher  of  the  Oratory,  known  by  the 
name  of  Fouchc,  Duke  of  Otranto,  whose  creature  and  friend  he  had 
been  In  private,  he  jested  a  little  about  God.  But  when  he  saw  the 
rich  manufaeturer,  Madeleine,  gO  to  low  mass  at  seven  o'clock,  he 
fores »w  a  possible  candidate  in  opposition  to  himself,  and  he  resolved  to 
©utdo  him.  He  took  a- Jesuit  confessor,  and  went  both  to  high  mass  and 
to  vespers.  Ambition  at  that  time  was,  as  the  word  itself  imports,  of 
the  nature  of  a  steeple-chase.  The  poor,  as  well  as  God,  gained  by  the 
terror  of  the  ht>norable  deput}',  for  he  also  established  two  beds  at  the 
hospital,  which  made  twelve. 

At  length,  in  1810,  it  was  reported  in  the  city  one  morning,  thafr  upon 
the  recommen4ation  of  the  prefect,  and  in  consideration  of  the  services 
he  had  rendered  to  the  country.  Father  Madeleine  had  been  appointed 

by  the  king,  mayor  of  M sur  M-^ .     Those  who  had  pronounced 

the  new-comer  "  an  ambitious  man,"  eagerly  seized  this  opportunity, 
which  all  men  desire,  to  exclaim  :  ^ 

"  There  !  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

?I sur  M was  filled  with  the  rumor,,  and  the  report  proved 

to  be  well-founded,  for,  a  few  days  afterwards,  the  notnination  appeared 
in  the  MunUciir.     The  next  day  Father  Madeleine  declined. 

In  the  same  year,  1819,  the  results  of  the  new  process  invented  by 
Madeleine  had  a  place  in' the  Industrial  Exhibition,  and,  upon  the  report 
of  the  jury,  the  king  named' the  inventor  a  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor.  Here  jpas  a  new  rumor  for  the  little  city.  "  Well !  it  was  the 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  that  he  wanted."  Father  Madeleine 
declined  the  cross. 

Decidedly  this  man  was  an  enigma,  and  the  good  people  gave  up  the' 
field,  saying,  "After  all,  be  is  a  sort  of  adventurer." 

As  we  have  Seen,  the  eountrj'  owed  a  great  deal  to  this  man,  and  the 
poor  owed  him  everything  ;  he  was  so  useful  that  all  were  compelled  to 
honor  him,  and  so  kind  .that  none  could  help  loving  him;  his  wnrkaiea 
in  particular  adored  him,  and  he  received  their  adoration  with  a  sort 
of  melancholy  gravity.  After  he  became  rich,  those  who  constituted 
"society"  bowed  to  him  as  they  met,  and,  in  the  city,  ho  began  to  be 
wiled  5lr.  Madeleine ;  — but  his  w;)rkmen  and  the  children  continued  ta 
call  him  Father  3fa<hlffine,  and  at  that  name  his  face  always  wore  a 
smile  As  his  wealth  increased,  invitations  rained  i»  on  him.  "So- 
ciety" claimed  him.     The  little  exclusive  parlors  of  M sur  M , 

which  were  carefully  guarded,  and  in  earlier  days,  of  course,  hid  been 


108-  '     LES    MISERAELES. 

dosed  to  tlie  artisan,  opened  wide  their  doors  to  the  millionaire.  A 
thousand  advances  were  made  to  him,  but  he  refused  them  all. 

And  again  (he  gossips  were  at  no' loss.  *'  lie  is  an  ignorant  man,  and 
cf  poor  education.  No  one  knows  where  he  came  from.  He  does  not 
know  liow  to  conduct  himself  in  p;ood  society,  and  it  is  by  no  means 
certain  that  he  knows  how  to  read" 

"When  they  saw  him  makvng  money,  they  said,  *'  He  is  a  merchaij^." 
When  they  saw  the  way  in  which  he  scattered  liis  money,  they  s»id, 
«' He  is  ambitious."  When  they  saw  him  refuse  to  accept  honors,  they 
gaid,  •*  He  is  an  adventurer."  When  they  saw  him  repel  the  advance! 
cf  the  fashionable,  they  said,  "  He  is  a  brute." 

In  1820, "five  years  after  his  arrival  at  M sur  M ,  the  services 

that  he  had  rendered  to  the  region  were  so  brilliant,  and  the  wish  of  the 
whole  population  was  so  unanimous,  that  the  kinr  again  appointed  him 
mayor  of  the  city.  He  refused  again;  but  the  prefect  resisted  his  de- 
termination, the  principal  citizens  came  and  urged  him  fb  accept,  and 
the  people  in  the  streets  bogged  him  to  do  so;  all  in-^istcd  so  strongly 
that  at  last  he  yielded.  It  was  remarked  that  what  appeared  most  df 
sll  to  bring  him  to  this  determination  was  the  almost  angry  exclamation 
-^f  an  old  woman  belonging  to  the  poorer  class,  who  cried  out  to  him 
from  her  door  stone,  with  some  temper  : 

"  A  good  mayor  is  a  good  thing.  Arc  you  afraid  of  the  good  you  can 
do?"* 

Jhis  was  the  third  step  in  his  ascent.  Father  Madeleine  had  becotne 
Mr.  Madeleine,  and  Mr.  Madeleine  now  became  Mr.  Mayor. 


III. 

MONEYS   DEPOSITED   WITH   LAFFITTE. 

Nevertheless  he  remained  aa  simple  as  at  first.  He  had  grey  hair,  a 
serious  eye,  the  brown  complexion  of  a  laborer,  and  the  thoughtful 
countenance  of  a  philosopher.  He  usually  wore  a  hat  with  a  wide  brim, 
and  a  long  coat  of  coarse  cloth,  buttfned  to  the  chin.  He  fulftlled  hid 
duties  as  mayor,  but  beyond  that  his  life  waj  isolated.  He  talked  with 
very  few  persons.  He  shrank  from  compliments,  and  with  a  touch  of 
the  hat  walked  on  rapidly  j  he  smiled  to  avoid  talking,  and  gave' to 
avoid  soiiliug.  The  women  saidof  him:  "  What  a  good  bear ! "  Ilia 
pleasure  was  to  walk  in  the  fitdds. 

He  always  took  his  meals  alone,  with  a  book  open  before  him'in  which 
he  read.  His  library  was  small,  but  well  selected.  He  loved  books; 
books  are  cold,  but  sure  friends.  As  his  growing  fortune  gave  him 
more  leisure,  it  seemed  that  he   profited  by  it  to  cultivate  his  mind. 

Since  he  had  been  at  M sur  M ,  it  was  remarked  from  year  to 

year  that  his  language  became  more  polished,  choicer,  and  more  gentle. 

In  his  walks  he  liked  to  carry  a  gun,  though  he  seldom  used  it.  When 
he  did  so,  however,  his  aim  was  frightfully  certain.  He  never  killed  an 
inoffensive  aniraa?*,  and  never  fired  at  any  of  the  small  birds. 

Although  Jie  was  no  longer  young,  It  was  reported  that  he  was  of 
prodigious  strength.     He  would  offer  a  helping  hand  to  any  one  who 


FANTINE.  109 

needed  it,  liclp  up  a  fallen  horse,  push  at  a  stalled  \rheel,  or  seize  by  the 
horns  a  bull  that  had  broken  loose.  He  always  had  his  pockets  full  of 
money  when  he  went  out,  and  empty  when  he  returned.  When  he 
passed  through  a  village,  tjje  ragixcd  little  youngsters  would  run  after 
bini  with  joy,  and  surround  him  like  a  swarm  of  flies. 

It  was  surn)ised  that  he  must  have  lived  formerly  in  the  country,  for 
be  had  all  sorts  of  useful  sccrcfts  wliich  he  taught  the  peasants.  He 
showed  them  how  to  destroy  the  grain-moth  by  sprinkling  the  granary 
and  washing  the  cracks  of  the  floor  with  a  solution  of  common  salt,  an<J 
how  to  drive  away  the  weevil  by  hanging  up  all  about  the  ceiling  and 
walls,  in  the  pastures,  and  jo  the  houses,  the  flowers  of  the  orviot.  He 
had  recipes  for  clearing  a  field  of  rust,  vetches,  of  moles,  of  dog-grass, 
and  alh  the  parasitic  herbs  which  live  upon  the  grain.  He  defended 
a  rabbit  warren  against  rats,  with  nothing  but  the  odor  of  a  little 
Barbary  pig  that  he  placed  there. 

One  day  he  saw  some  country  people  very  busy  pulling  up  nettles; 
he  looked  at  the  heap  of  plants  uprooted  and  already  wilted,  and  said  ; 
"This  is  dead  ;  but  it  would  be  well  if  we  knew  how  to  put  it  to  some 
use.  When  the  nettle  is  young,  the  leavfs  make  excellent  greens;  when 
it  grows  old,  it  has  filaments  and  fibres  like  hemp  and  fla^.  Cloth  made 
from  the  nettle  is  worth  as  much  as  that  made  from  hemp.  Chopped 
up,  the  nettle  is  good  for  poultry  ;  pounded,  it  is  good  for  horned  cattle. 
The  setd  of  the  nettle  mixed  with  the  fodder  of  animals  gives  a  lustre 
to  their  skin  ;  the  root,  mixed  with  salt,  produces  a  beautiful  yellow  dye. 
It  makes,  moreover,  excellent  hay,  as  it  can  be  cut  twice  in  a  season. 
And  what  docs  the  nettle  need?  very  little  soil,  no  care,  no  culture; 
except  that  the  seeds  fall  as  fast  as  they  ripen,  and  it  is  dilFicuIt  to  gather 
them  ;  that  is  all.  If  we  would  take  a  littl<^  pains,  the  nettle  would  be 
useful ;  we  neglect  it,  and  it  becomes  harmful.  Then  we  kill  it.  IIow 
much  men  are  like  the  nettle  I"  After  a  short  silence,  he  added  :  "  My 
friends,  remember  Ibis,  that  there  are  no  bad  herb.s,  and  no  bad  men; 
there  are  only  bad  cultivators." 

The  childreu  loved  him  yet  more,  because  he  knew  how  to  make 
charming  little  playthings  out  of  straw  and  tocoanuts. 

When  he  saw  the  door  of  a  church  shrouded  with  black,  he  entered; 
he  sought  out  a  funeral  as  others  seek  out  a  christening.  The  bereave- 
ment and  the  nii>fortune  of  others  attracted  him,  becau.sc  of  his  great 
gentleness  ;  he  mingled  with  friends  who  were  in  mourning,  with  families 
dressed  in  black,  with  the  priests  who  were  .singing  around  a  corpse. 
lie  seemed  glad  to  take  as  a  text  for  hi*  thoughts  the.se  funereal  psalms, 
full  of  the  vision  of  another  world.  With  bis  eyc,5  raised  to  heaven,  he 
listened  with  a  .sort  of  aspiration  towards  all  the  n)ysteries  of  the  Infinite, 
to  these  sad  voices,  whicb  sing  upon  the  brink  of  the  dark  abyss  of 
death. 

He  did  a  multitude  of  good  deeds  8s  secretly  as  bad  ones  are  usually 
done.  He  would  steal  into  bouses  in  the  evening,  and  furtively  mount 
the  stairs.  A  poor  devil,  on  returning  to  his  garret,  would  find  that  his 
door  had  been  opened,  sometimes  even  forced,  during  his  absence.  The 
poor  man  would  cry  out:  "Some  thief  ha%beon  here!"  When  he  goli 
in,  the  first  thing  that  he  would  sec  would  be  a  piece  of  gold  lying  on 
the  table.     "The  tbief,"  who  had  been  there,  was  Father  ^Jadcleinc. 


110  LES   MISERABLES. 

He  was  affable  and  sad.  The  people  used  <,o  say  :  "  There  is  a  rich 
Djan  who  docs  not  show  pride.  There  is  a  fortunate  man  who  does  not 
appear  contented." 

Some  pretended  that  he-was  a  mysterious  |»ersonage,  and  declared  that 
no  one  ever  went  into  his  room,  which  was  a  true  anohnrite's  cell,  fur- 
nished with  hour-glasses,  and  enlivened  with  death's-heads  and  cross- 
bones.    So  much  was  "said  of  this  kind  th&t  pouie  of  the  more  mischievous 

of  the  elegant  young  ladies  of  M sur  M called  on  him  one  day 

and  said  :  "  Mr  Mayor,  will  you  show  us  your  room  ?  We  have  heard 
(hat  it  is  a  grotto."  He  smiled,  and  introduced  them  on  the  spot  to 
this  "grotto."  They  were  well  punished  ^r  their  curiosity.  It  was  a 
room  very  well  fitted  up  with  mahogany  furniture,  ugly  as  all  furniture 
of  that  kind  is,  and  the  walls  covered  with  shilling  paper.  They  could 
see  nothing  but  two  candlesticks  of  antique  form  that  stood  on  the  man- 
tel, and  appeared  to  be  silver,  "for  they  were  marked,"  a  remark  full 
of  the  spirit  of  these  little  towns. 

But  none  the  less  did  it  continue  to  be  said  that  nobody  ever  went 
into  that  chamber,  and  that  it  was  a  hermitis  cave,  a  place  of  dreams,  a 
hole,  a  tomb. 

It  was  also  <?hispered  that  he  had  "immense"  sun'is  deposited  with 
LaflBtte,  with  the  special  condition  that  they  wore  always'at  his  imme- 
diate command,  in  such  a  way,  it  was  added,  that  Mr.  Madeleine  might 
arrive  in  the  morning  at  Laffitte's,  sign  a  receipt  and  carry  away  his  two 
or  three  millions  in  ten  minutes.  In  reality,  these  "two  or  three  mil- 
lions" dwindled  down,  as  we  have  said,  to  six  hundred  and  thirty  or 
forty  thousand  francs. 


IV. 

MR.    MADELEINE   IN    MOURNING. 

Near  the  beginning  of  the  year  1821,  the  journals  announced  the 

"decease  of  Mr.  Myriel,  Bishop  of  D ,  surnamed  "  Mij  Lord  .Bicn- 

Vfnu,"  who  died,  in  the  odor  of  sanctity,  at  the  age  of  eighty-two  yciirs. 

The  Bishop  of  D ,  to  add  au  incident  which  the  journals  omitted, 

had  been  blind  for  several  years  before  he  died,  and  was  content  there- 
with, his  sister  being  with  him. 

The  announcement  of  his  death  was  reproduced  in  the  local  paper  of 

M sur  M -.     Mr.  Mudelffine  appeared  next  morning  dressed  in 

black  with  crape  on  his  hat. 

This  mourning  was  noticed  and  talked  about  all  over  the  town.  It 
appeared  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  origin  of  Mr.  Madeleine.  The 
conclusion  was  that  he  was  in  some  way  related  to  the  venerab'e  bi.shop. 
*' He  wears  black  for  the  Bishop  of  D ,"  was  the  talk  of  the  draw- 
ing-rooius ;  it  elevated  Mr.  Madeleine  very  much,  and  gave' him  sud- 
denly, and  in  a  trice,  marked  consideration  in  the  noble  world  of  M 

Kur  M .    The  mic'oscopic  Faubourg  Saint  Germain  of  the  little  place 

thought  of  raising  the  quarantine  for  Mr.  Madeleine,  the  probable  rela- 
tive of  a  bishop.  Mr.  Madeleine  perceived  the  advancement  that  he 
had  obtained,    by   the  politer    bows   of   the  old    ladies  and    the  more 


FANTINE.  Ill 

frequent  sQiilcs  of  the  yonng  ladies.     Oae  evening,  one  of  the  dowagcie 
of  that  little  great  world,  curious  by  right  of  age,  ventured  to  ask  him  ; 

*'  The  mayor  is  doubtless  a  relative  of  the  late  bishop  of  D ?" 

"  He  said:   "No,  madam  " 

"  Hot,"  the  dowager  persisted,  "  You  wear  mourning  for  him?" 
He  answered  :  "  In  my  youth  I  was  a  servant  in  his  family." 
It  was  also  remarked,  thai  frhenever  there  pasvsed  through  the  city  a 
young  Savoyard,  who  was  trumping  about  the  country  in  search  of 
chimneys  to  sweep,  the  mayor  would  send  for  him,  ask  his  nan)e  and 
give  him  money.  The  little  Savoyards  told  each  other,  and  many  of 
them  passed  that  way. 


V. 

VAGUE   FLASHES   IN    THE   HORIZON. 

Little  by  little  in  the  lapse  of  time  all  opposition  had  ceased.  At  first 
there  had  been,  as  always  happens  with  those  who  rise  by  their  own 
efforts,  slanders  and  calumnies  against  Mr  Madeleine;  soon  this  was  re- 
duced to  satire,  then  it  was  only  wit,  then  it  vanished  entirely;  respect 
became  complete,  unanimous,  cordial,  and  there  came  a  moment,  about 

1^21,   when    the   words'  Mv.    Mayor   were   pronounced   at   M sur 

M with  almost  the  same  accent  as  the  words  My  Lord  the  Bishop 

at  D ,  in  1815.     People   came  from  thirty  miles  around  to  consult 

Mr.  Madeleine.  He  settled  differences,  he  prevented  lawsuits,  he  re- 
conciled enemies.  Every  body,  of  his  own  will,  chose  him  for  judge. 
lie  seemed  to  have  the  book  of  the  natural  law  by  heart.  A  contagion 
of  veneration  had,  in  the  course  of  six  or  seven  years,  step  by  step, 
spread  over  the  whole  country. 

One  man  alone,  in  the  cit}' and  its  neighborhood,  held  him.self  en- 
tirely cleaF  from  this  contagion,  and,  whatever  Father  Madeleine  did,  \i6 
remained  indifferent,  as  if  a  sort  of  instinct,  unehxngcable  and  imper- 
turbable, kept  him  awake  and  on  tlfe  watch.  It  would  seem,  indeed,  . 
that  there  is  in  certain  men  the  veritable  instinct  of  a  beast,  pure  and 
complete  like  all  instinct,  which  creates  antipathies  and  sympathies, 
which  separates  one  nature  from  another  for  ever,  which  never  hesitates,^ 
never  is  perturbed,  never  keeps  silent,  and  never  admits  itself  to  be  in 
the  wrong;  clear  in  its  ob.^curity,  infallible,  imperious,  refractory  under 
all  the  counsels  orintelligence,  and  all  the  solvents  of  reason,  and  which, 
whatever  may  be  their  destinies,  secretly  warns  the  dog  man  of  the  pre- 
senCvO  of  the  cat-man,  and  the  fox-man  of  the  presence  of  the  lion-man. 

Often,  when  Mr.  Madeleine  passed  along  the  street,  calm,  affectionate, 
followed  by  the  benedictions  of  all,  it  happened  that  a  tall  man,  wearing 
a  flat  hat  and  an  iron-grey  co:it,  and  armed  with  a  stout  cane,  would 
turn  round  abruptly  behind  him,  and  follow  him  with  his  eyes  until  he 
disappeared,  crossing  his  arms,  slowly  .shaking  his  head,  and  pushing  his 
upper  with  his  under  lip  up  to  his  nose,  a  sort  of  significant  grimace 
which  might  be  rendered  by  :  "  H»t  who  is  that  man?  I  am  sure  I 
have  seen  him  somewhere.     At  all  events,  1  at  least  aai  not  Lis  dupe." 

This  personage,  grave  with  an  almost  threatening  gravity,  was  one  o^ 


112  LE8    MISKRABLBS. 

those  who,  evCD  io  a  hurried  iotorvicir,  comtpand  the  attention  of  the 
observer. 

Ilix  name  was  .lavcrt,  and  he  wa?  one  of  the  police. 

He    held    at    M sur   M— " —  the    uiipUasant,   but   useful,    office 

of  iii«^pccfor.  He  was  not  there  at  the  date  of  Mud- Icine's  arriral. 
Javert  owed  his  position  to  the  protection  of  >fr.  Chabouillct,  the  Secre- 
tary f'f  the   Minister  of  State,  Count  Anir^ds,  then  profeut  of  poHco  at 

I'aris.      When  Javert  arrived  at  M sur  M ,  the  firtune  of  the 

great  nianuCitclurer  had  been  made  alrcaiy,  and  Father  Madeleine  had 
bceome  Mr.  Madeleine. 

Ct^itaia  police  officers  have  a  peculiar  physiognomy  in  which  can  be 
travel  an  air  of  meanness  mingled  with  an  air  ot  aulhority.  Javert  had 
this  physiognomy,  without  nieinness. 

It  is  our  convictiui),  that  if  sou.'s  were  visible  to  the  eye,  we  should 
distinctly  see  this  strange  fact,  that  each  individual  of  the  human  species 
corresponds  to  some  one  of  the  species  of  t!ie  animal  creation  ;  and  wo 
should  clearly  recognize  the  truth,  hardly  perceived  by  tluLkcrs,  that, 
from  the  oyster  to  Ihe  eagle,  from  the  swine  to  the  tiger,  all  animals  aie 
in  man,  and  that  each  of  tlicm  is  iu  a  muu ;  sometimes,  even,  several  of 
them  at  a  time. 

Now,  if  we  admit  for  a  moment  that  there  is  iu  every  inan  some  one 
of  the  species  of  the  ai)imal  creation,  it  will  be  easy  for  us  to  describe 
the  tiuardian  of  tlic  peace,  Javert 

The  peasants  of  the  Asturias  believe  that  in  every  litter  of  wolves 
thofe  is  one  dog,  which  is  killed  by  the  mother,  lest  on  growing  up  it 
should  devour  the  otj^er  little  ones. 

(jive  a  human  face  to  this  dog  son  of  a  wt.lf,  nud  you  will  have  Javert. 

Javert  was  born  in  a  prison.  His  mother  was  a  fortune  teller,  whose 
husband  was  in  the  galleys.  He  grew  up  to  think  himstilf  with.»ut  the 
pale  of  s'ociety,  and  despaired  of  ever  eutcring  it.  Ho  noticed  that 
society  closed  its  doors,  without  pity,  on  two  classes  of  men — those  who 
nttack  it  and  those  who  guard  it;  he  could  choose  between  these  two 
classes  only  ;  at  the  same  time  he  felt  that  he  had  an  indescribable  basi.< 
of  rectitude,  order  and  honesty,  it.ssocialcd  with  an  irreprcstible  hatred 
for  that  gypsy  race  to  which  htj  belonged.  He  entered  the  police.  Ho 
succeeded.     At  forty  he  was  an  inspector. 

In  his  youth  he  h.d  been  stationed  in  tho  galleys  at  the  South. 

IKTore  going  furthei*,  Kt  us  understand  whnt  we  mean  by  thi;  words 
human  face,  which  we  have  just  nnw  applied  to  Javert. 

The  huuiiin  face  of  Javert  consisted  of  a  snut>  ne)se,  with  two  deep 
nostrils,  which  were  bordered  by  large  bushy  whiskers  that  covere<l  both 
his  cheeks.  You  felt  ill  at  easo  the  first  lin:e  you  saw  those  two  forests 
an.d  (hose  two  caverns.  When  Javert  laughed,  which  was  rarely  and 
terribly,  his  'thin  lips  parted,  and  showed,  not  only  his  teeth,  but  his 
gums;  and  around  his  nose  there  was  a  wrinkle  as  broad  and  wild  as 
the  mu/.zle  of  a  fallow  deer.  Javert,  when  serious,  was  a  bull  chig  ; 
when  he  laughed,  lie  was  a  tiger.  For  the  nst,  a  small  Ix-ad,  large;  jaws, 
hair  hiding  the  forehead  and  falling  over  the  eyibrows,  between  the  eyes 
a  permanent  central  frown,  a  gloomy  look,  a  mouth  pinched  and  fright- 
ful, and  ag  air  of  tierce  command. 
•     This  man  was  a  compound  of  two  sentiments,  very  simple  and  very 


FANTINE.  113 

good  in  thomjulvcs,  but  Tic  almn,«t  made  (hem  evil  bj  Lis  exaggeration 
of  them  :  respect  for  authority  and  hatred  of  rebellion  ;  and  in  his  eyes, 
theft,  tnurder,  all  crimes,  wore  only  f(*rnis  of  rebellion.  In  his  strong 
and  implicit  laith  he  included  all  who  held  any  function  in  the  State, 
from  the  prime  minister  to  the  consfablo.  He  had  nothing  but  disdain, 
aversion  and  di.<gu.>:t  for  all  who  had  once  overstepped  the  bounds  of  the 
law.  He  .was  ab.solutc,  and  admitted  n# exceptions.  '  On  the  one  hand 
he  said  :  "A  public  officer  cannot  be  deceived  ;  a  magistrate  never  docs 
wrong!"  Aiid  on  the  other  he  said:  "They  are  irremediably  lost;  no 
good  can  cftmc  cut  of  them"  lie  shared  fully  the  opinion  of  those 
extremists  who  attribute  to  human  laws  an  indescribable  power  of 
making,  or,  if  you  will,  of  di-termining,  demons,  and  who  place  a  Styx 
at  the  bottom  of  society.  He  was  stoiial,  serious,  austere;  a  droaner 
of  stern  dreams;  humble  and  haughty,  like  all  fanatics,  lli.s  stare  wa.s 
cold  and  a,s  piercing  as^  gimltt.  His  who'c  life  was  contained  in  these 
two  words — waking  and  watching.  He  marked  out  a  f-traight  path 
through  the  most  (ortuo.us  thing  in  the  world ;  his  con.'^cience  was 
bound  up  in  his  utility,  his  religion  in  his  duties,  and  he  was  a  spy  as 
others  are  priests.  Woe  to  hini  who  sho.uld  fall  into  his  hands!  He 
jwould  have  alTcsted  his  father  if  escaping  from  the  galleys,  and  de- 
nounced his  mother  for  violating  her  ticket  of  leave.  ,Aiid  he  would 
have  done  it  with  that  sort  of  interior  .satisfaction  that  springs  from 
virtue.  *  His  life  was  a  life  of  privations,  isolation,  sclfdehial,  and 
chastity — never  any  amuseqicnt.  It  was  impla^ble  duty,  absojjbed  in 
the  police  as  the  Spartans  were  absorbed  in  Sparti,  a  pitiless  detecti.ve, 
a  fierce. honesty,  a  marble  hearted  informer,  Hrutus  united  with  Vidocrj. 

The  whole  person  of  Javert  expressed  the  spy  and  the  informer.  The 
mystic  school  of  Joseph  Dc  Maistre,  which  at  that  time  enlivened  what 
were  called  the  ultra  journals  with  high  sounding  cosmogonies,  would 
have  said  that  Javcrt  was  a  symbol.  You  could  not  see  hrs  forehead 
which  disappeared  under  his  h.if,  you  could  not  see  his  eyes  which  were 
lost  under  his  brows,  you  could  not  see  his  chin  which  was  buried  in 
his  cravat,  you  could  not  see  his  hand'*  whiidi  were  drawn  up  into  his 
sleeves,  you  could  not  see  his  cane  which  he  carried  under  his  coat,  l^nt 
when  the  time  came,  you  would  sec  .<-pring  all  at  once  out  of  this  shadow, 
as  froiH  an  ambush,  a  steep*  and  narrow  forehead,  an  ominDus  look,  a 
threatening  chin,  enormous  hands,  and  a  monstrous  club. 

In  his  leisure  moments,  which  wore  rare,  although  he  hated  bfroks,  he 
read  ^  wheretbre  he  was  not  entirely  ilirternte.  •This  was  perceived  also 
from  a  certain  emphasis  in  his  spcccli. 

^  He  was  free  from  vice,  wc  have  said.  When  he  was  satisfied  with 
himself,  he  allowed  himself  a  pinch  of  snuff.  That  proved  that  he  was 
human. 

It  will  be  easily  understood  that  .Tavert  was  the  terror  of  all  that  class 
which  the  annual  sfatisiics  of  the  IVliiii.-tcr  of  Ju.siice  include  under  the 
hcutling  :  l^opfr.  tcithmt  a  Jix"/  nhoje.  To  speak  the  name  of  Javcrt 
would  put  all  such  to  flight  ;   the  face  of  Javcrt  petrified  them. 

Such  was  this  formidable  man 

Javert  was  like  an  eye  always  fixed  on  Mr.  Madeleine  ;  an  eye  full  of 
suspicion  and  conjecture.  Mr  Madeleine  finally  noticed  it,  but  seemed 
to  consider  it  of  no  con.'cquencc.     He  asked  no  questions  of  Jivert  j  ho 


114  LES   MIS^RABLES. 

neither  souolit  liim  nor  i>liuuncd  Lim;  he  endured  this  unpleasant  and 
annojing  stare  without  appearing  to  pay  any  attention  to  it.  He  treated 
Javert  as  he  did  every  body  else,  with  ease  and  with  kindness. 

From  soir.e  words  that  Javert  had  dropped,  it  was  guessed  that  he  had 
eecretly  hunted  up,  with  that  curiusiry  which  belongs  to  his  race,  and 
which  is  more  a  matter  of  instinct  than  of  will,  all  the  traces  of  his  pre- 
vious life  which  Father  Madelrino  had  left  elsewhere.  He  appeared  to 
know,  and  he  said  sometimes  in  a  covert  way,  that  somebody  had  gathered 
certain  information  in  a  certain  region  about  a  certain  missing  family. 
-Once  he  happened  to  say,  speaking  to  himself:  "I  think  I  have  got 
him!"  Then  for  three  days  he  remained  moody  without  speaking  a 
word.     It  appeared  that  the  clue  which  he  thought  he  had  was  broken. 

But,  and  iliis  i^i  the  neees.sary  corrective  to  what  the  meaning  of  cer- 
tain words  may  have  presented  in  too  absolute  a  sense,  there  can  be 
nothing  really  infallible  in  a  human  creature,  a^d  the  very  peculiarity 
of  instinct  is  that  it  can  be  disturbed,  followed  up  and  routed.  Were 
this  not  so,  it  would  be  superior  to  intelligence,  and  the  beast  would  be 
in  po.sso!<sion  of  i\  purer  li^ht  than  nian> 

Javert  was  evidently  so'iicwh^t  disconcerted  by  the  completely  natural 
air  and  the  tranquility  of  Mr.  INJadeleine.  » 

One  day,  hoyever,  his  strange  manner  appeared  to  makean  impres- 
Bion  upon  Mr.  Madeleine.     The  occasion  was  this: 


VI. 

FATHER   I'AUCBELEVENT. 

Mr.  Madeleine  was  walking  one  morning  along  one  of  the  unpaved 

alleys  of  M sur  M ;  he  heard  a  shouting  and  saw  a  crowd  at  a 

little  distance.  He  went  to  the  spot.  An.  old  man,  named  Father 
Fauchelevent,  had  fallen  under  his  cart,  his  horse  being  down.. 

This  Fauchelevent  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  still  enemies  of  ^\r. 
Madeleine  at  this  time.  When  Madeleii\e  anived  iu  the  place,  the 
bu.siness  of  Fauchelevent,  who  was  a  notary  of  long  standing,  and  very 
well-rt^d  for  a  rustic,  was  beginning  to  decline  Fauchelevent  had  seen 
this  mere  artisan  grow  rich,  while  he  himself,  a  professional  man,  had 
been  going  to  ruin.  This  had  tillel  him  with  jealousy,  and  he  had'done 
what  lie  could  on  all  occasions  to  injure  Madeleine,  Then  came  bank- 
rujitcy,  and  the  old  man,  having  nuthing  but  a  horse  and  cart,  as  he 
was  without  family,  and  without  children,  was  compelled  to  earn  Lis 
ITving  as  a  carman. 

The  hor.se  had  his  thighs  broken,  and  could  not  stir.  The  old  man 
was  caught  between  the  wheels.  Unluckily  he  had  fallen  so  that  the 
who'c  weight  rested  upon  his  breast.  The  carl  was  heavily  loaded. 
Father  Fauchelevent  was  uttering  doleful  groans.  Tiiey  had  tried  to 
pull  him  out,  hut  in  vain  An  unlucky  effort,  inexpert  help,  a  false 
push,nnigl)t  crush  him.  It  was  impossible  to  extricate  him  otherwise 
than  by  raising  the  wagon  from  beneath.  Javert,  who  came  up  at  the 
moment  of  the  accident,  had  sent  for  a  j-ick. 


PANTINE.  115 

Mr.  Madeleine  came.     The  crowd  fell  back  wifh  respect. 

"  Help,"  cried  old  Faucliele\-«nt.  "  Who  is  a  good  fellow  to  save  an 
old  mail  ?" 

Mr*  Madeleine  turned  towards  the  bj-standers  : 

"  Has  any  body  a  jack  ?  " 

"Th.ey  have  gone  for  one,'"  replied  a  peasant. 

"How  soon  v^ill  it  be  here?" 

"  We  sent  to  the  nearest  place,  to  Flachot  I'lace,  where  there  is  a 
blacksmith;   but  it  will  take  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  at  least." 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour?"   exchumed  Madeleine. 

It  had  rained  ihe  night  before,  the  road  was  soft,  the  cart  wns  sinking 
deeper  every  moment,- and  pressing  more  and  more  on  the  breast  of  the 
old  carman.  It  was  evident  that  in  less  than  five  minutes  his  ribs  >vould 
be  crushecl. 

*'  We  cannot  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  said  Madeleine  to  the  peasants 
•who  were  locking  on. 

"We  must  !" 

"  But  it  will  be  too  late  I  Don't  you  see  that  the  wngon  is  sinking  all 
the  while?" 

"  It  can't  be  helped." 

"  liistcn,"  resumed  Madeleine,  "  there  is  room  cnt;ugh  still  undi  r  the 
wagon  for  a  man  to  crawl  in  and  lift  it  with  his  baek.  In  half  a  minute 
we  will  have  the  poor  man  out.  Is  there  nobody  here  who  has  strength 
and  courage?     Five  louisd'or  for  him  !" 

Nobody  stirred  in  the  crowd. 

"Ten  louis,"  said  Madeleine. 

The  bystanders  dropped  their  eyes.  One  of  them  muttered  :  "He'd 
liave  to  be  devilish  stout      And  then  he  would  risk  getting  crushed." 

"Come,"  said  Madeleine,  "twenty  louis." 

The  same  silence. 

"It.  is  njt  willingness  which  they  lack,''  said  a  voice. 

Mr.  Madeleine  turned  and  saw  Javert.  Ho  had  not  noticed  him  when 
he  came. 

Javert  continued  : 

"It  is  strength.  He  must  be  a  terrible  man  who  can  raise  a  wagon 
like  that  on  his  back." 

Then,  looking  fixedly  at  Mr.  Madeleine,  he  wont  on  emphasising  every 
word  that  he  uttered  : 

"Mr.  Madeleine,  I  have  known  but  one  man  capable  of  doing  what 
you  call  for." 

Madeleine  shuddered. 

Javert  added,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  but  without  taking  Lis  eyes 
from  Madeleine  : 

"  He  was  a  convict." 

"  Ah  !  "   said  Madeleine. 

"  In  the  galleys  at  Toulon." 
•    Madeh  ine  became  pale.  ' 

Meanwhile  the  cart  was  slowlj  settling  duwn.  Father  Faucheleveat 
roared  and  screamed  : 

"  i  am  dying  !   my  ribs  are  breaking  !  a  jack  !  anything  !  oh  I"" 

Madeleine  looked  around  hiui : 


116  LE3    MIsfiRABLES. 

"  Is  there  n<>boJy,  then,  who  wants  to  earn  twenty  louis  and  save  this 
poor  bid  man's  life," 

None  of  the  bystanders  moved. 

Javcrt  resumed  :  '  . 

"  I  liarc  known  but  one  man  who  could  take  the  place  of  a  jack;  that 
was  that  convict." 

"  Oh  !  how  it  crushes  me  !  "  cried  the  old  man. 

Madeleine  raised  his  head,  nut  the  falcon  eye  of  Javcrt  still  fixed 
upon  hitii,  looked  at  the  immovable  peasant's,  and  smiled  sadly.  Then, 
without  saying*  word,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and  even  beforo  iho  crowd 
bad  time  to  utter  a  cry,  he  was  under  the  cart. 

There  was  an  awful  moment  of  suspense  and  of  silence. 

jMa»leleine,  lying  almost  flat  under  the  fearful  weight,  was  twice  seen 
to  try  in  vain  to  bring  his  elbows  and  knees  nearer  togethtr  They 
cried  out  to  iiim  :  "Father  Madeleine!  come  out  from  there!"  Old 
Fauchelevent  hi'mself  said  :  "Mr.  Madeleine !, go  away!  I  must  die, 
you  see  that ;  leave  me  !  you  will  be  crushed  too." 

^radelfine  made  no  answer. 

The  bystanders  held  their  breath.  The  wheels  were  still  sinking,  and 
it  had  now  become  ahnost  impossible  for  Madeleine  to  extricate  himself. 

All  at  once  the  enormous  mass  starteJ,  the  cart  rose  slowly,  the  wheels 
ca,me  half  out  of  the  rut.-r.  .A  smothered  voice  was  heard,  eying: 
"  Quick  !   help  !  "     It  was  Madeleine^  who  had  just  made  a  final  effort. 

They  all  rushed  tp  the  work.  The  devotion  of  one  man  luid  given 
strength  and  courage  to  all.  The  cart  was  lifted  by  twenty  arras.  Old' 
Fauchelevent  was  safe. 

Madeleine  arose.  He  was  very  pale,  though  dripping  with  sweat. 
His  clothes  were  torn  and  covered  with  mud.  All  wept.  The  old  man 
kissed  his  knees  and  called  him  the  good  God.  He  himself  wore  on  his 
face  an  indescribable  expression  of  joyous  and  celestial  suffering,  and  he 
looked  with  tranquil  eye  upon'Javert^who  was  still  watching  him. 


VII. 

FAUCHELEVENT   BECOMES   A   GARDENER    l.N    PARIS. 

Fauchelevent  had  broken  his  knee-pan  in  his  fall.  Father  Madeleine 
had  him  carried  to  an  infirmary  that  he  had  established  for  his  workmen 
in  the  same  building  with  his  factory,  which  was  attended  by  two  sisten^i 
of  charity.  The  next  morning,  the  old  miu  found  a  thousand  franc  bill 
upon  the  stand  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  this  note  in  the  handwriting 
of  Father  Madeleine:  I  hnve  purchased  i/nur  horxe  and  carf.  The  cart 
was  broken  and  the  horse  was  dead.  Fauchelevent  got  well,  but  lie  had 
a  stiff  knee.  Mr.  Madeleine,  through  the  recomnicndatioiis  of  tho 
sisters  and  the  curate,  got  the  old  man  a  place  as  gardener  at  a  convent, 
in  the  Quartier  Saint  Antoine  lU  Paris.  ,         • 

Some  time  afterwards  Mr.  Madeleine  was  appointed  mayor.  The  first 
time  that  Javert  saw  Mr.  Madeleine  clothed  with  the  scarf  which  gave 
him  full  authority  over  the  city,  he  felt  the  same  sort  of  shudder  which 
a  bull  dog  would,  feel  who  should  scent  a  wolf  in  his  master's  clothes. 


FANTINE.  117 

From  that  time  he  avoided  him  as  much  as  he  could.  When  (he  neces- 
sities of  the  service  imperiously  demanded  it,  and  he  couKl  not  do  other- 
wise than  come  in  contact  with  Ihe  mayor,  he  spoke  to  him  with  pro- 
found respect 

The  prosperity  which   Father  Madeleine  had  created  at   M sur 

M ,  in  addition  to  the  visible  siirns  that  we  h;i.ve  pointed  out,  had 

another  symptom  which,  aHiough  not  visible,  was  not  the  less  signifi- 
cant. This  never  fails.  When  the  population  is  suffering,  when  there 
is  hick  of  work,  when  trade  falls  off,  the  tax-payer,  constrained  by  pov- 
erty, resists  taxation,  exhausts  and  overruns  the  delays  allowed  by  law, 
and  the  government  is  forced  to  incur  large  expend  tures  in  the  costs  of* 
levy  and  collection.-  When  work  is  abundant,  when  the  country  is  rich 
and  happy,  the  tax  is  easily  paid  and  costs  the  State  but  little  to  collect. 
It  may  be  said  that  poverty  and  public  wealth  have  an  infallible  thoi'- 
niomctor  in  the  cost  of  the  collection  of  the  taxes.  In  seven  years,  the 
cost  of  the  collection  of  the  taxes  had  been  reduced  three-quarters  in  the 

district  of  M sur  M ,  so  that  that  district  was  frequently  re-. 

ferred  to  specially  by  Mr.  de  Villele,  tlieu  Minister  of  Finance. 

kSueh  was  the  situation  of  the  country  when  Fantine  returned.  No 
one  remembered  her.  Luckily  the  door  of  Mr.  .3Iadeleine's  factory  tS'as. 
like  the  face  of  a  friend.  She  presented  herself  there,  and  was  adiiHtted 
into  the  workshop  for  women.  The  business  was  entirely  new  to  Fan- 
tine,  she  could  not  be  very  expert  in  it,  and  consequently  did  not  receive 
much  for  her  day's  work;  but  that  little  wa,s  enough,  the  problem  was 
solved  ;  she  was  earning  her  living.  •  » 


VIII. 

MRS.   VICTUllNIEN    SPENDS   TIIIRTV    FHANCS   ON    MORALITY. 

When  Fantinc  realized  how  she  was  living,  sh(^  had  a  moment  of  "joy. 
To  live  honestly  by  her  own  labor;  what  a  heavenly  boon!  The  taste 
for  labor  returned  to  her,  in  truth.  She  bought  a  mirror,  delighted  her- 
self with  the  sight  of  her  youth,  her  fine  hair  and  her  tine  teeth,  forgot 
many  things,  thought  of  nothing  save  Cosctta  and  the  possibilities  of 
the  future,  and  was  almost  happy.  She  hired  a  sn)all  room  and  fiirni:?hed 
it  on  the  credit  of  her  future  labor — a  remnant  of  her  habits  of  disorder. 

Not  being  able  to  say  that  she  was  married,  she  took  gocd  care,  as  we 
have  already  intimated,  not  to  speak  of  her  little  girl. 

At  first,  as  we  have  seen,  she  paid  the  Thenardiers  punctually.  As 
she  only  knew  how  to  sign  her  name,  she  was  obliged  to  write  through 
a  public  letter-writer. 

She  wrote  often;  that  was  noticed.  They  began  to  whisper  in  the 
women's  workshop  that  Fanfinc  ."  wrote  letters,"  and  that  "she  had 
airs."  For  prying  into  any  human  affairs,  none  are  equal  to  those 
whom  it  docs  not  concern.  "  Why  does  this  gentleman  never  come  till 
dusk  ?"  •"  Why  does  Mr.  So-and  so  never  hang  his  key  on  the  nail  oa 
Thursday?"  "Why  does  he  always  takq  the  bystreets*"  "Why 
does  madam  always  leave  her  carriage  before  getting  to  the  house?" 


118  LEs  mis£rablef. 

''  Whj  does  she  send  to  buy  a  quire  of  writing  paper  when  she  has  bor 
portfolio  full  of  it?"  etc  etc.  There  are  persons  wlio,  to  folvc  tbenu 
enigmas,  which  arc  moreover  perfic.tl^  imrfiiiterial  to  them,  ^pend  more 
niotiej,  waste  more  time,  and  give  tViiisolvcs  more  trouble  than  would 
•uffice  for  ten  ^'ood  deeds;  and  that  gntuitously,  and  for  the  pleasure  of 
it,  without  b'inir  paid  for  the  curiosity  in  any  "ther  way  than  by  eurinhily. 
They  will  follow  this  man  or  that  woman  whole  day?,  ^land  guard  for 
hours  at  tho  corners  of  the  strccf,  under  th'^  entrance  of  a  passafje  way, 
at  n'ghf,  in  the  cold  and  in  the  rain,  bribe  messengers,  get  hack  drivers 
ntid  lackeys  drunk,  fee  a  chambermai  I,  or  buy  a  porter.  For  what  f 
fur  nothing.  Pure  craving  to  Fee,  to  know,  and  !■>  find  out  Pure  itch- 
ing for  scandal.  And  often  these  secrets  made  known,  these  mysteries 
published,  these  rniguias  brought  into  the  light  of  day,  lead  to  catas- 
trophos,  (0  du(  I.«,  to  failures,  to  the  ruin  of  familiei?,  and  make  lives 
wn-tche<],  tt)  the  great  joy  of  those  who  have  "discovered  all"  without 
any  interest,  and  from  pure  instinct.     A  sad  thing. 

Some  proj^Ie  arc  malicious  from  tho  mere  necessity  of  talking.  Tiicir 
conversation,  tattling  in  the  drawing  room,  gossip  in  the  antechamber,  is 
like  those  fireplaics  tliat  use  up  wood  rapiily;  they  need  a  great  deal 
of  fuel  ;   tho  fuel  is  their  neighbor. 

8q  Famine  was  watched. 

lieyond  thin,  more  than  one  wa.s  jealous  of  her  fair  hair  and  of  her  . 
white  teeth. 

It  was  reported  that  in  tho  shop,  with  all  the  rest  about  her,  she  often 
turned  aside  her  head  to  wipe  away  a  tear.  Those  were  moments  when 
she  thought  of  her  chil<lj  perhaps  al.'-o  of  t!ie  man  whom  the  had 
loved. 

it  id  a  Uiournful  task  to  break  the  t^ombre  aftaohmenfs  of  the  past. 

It  was  ascertained  that  she  wrote,  at  least  twice  a  month,  and  always 
to  the  same  address,  and  that  she  prepaid  the  postage.  Thpy  succeeded 
in  learning  the  address:  Mr.  Thmnnfiir,  innkeeper,  Muntfirmcit. 
The  public  letter  writer,  a  simple  old  fellow,  who  could  not  fill  his 
Btomach  with  red  wine  without  emptying  his  pocket  of  his  lyjcrefs,  wa.s 
made  to  reveal  this  at  a  drinking  house.  In  short,  it  became  kno^wn 
that  Fantine  hud  a  child.  "  She  must  be  that  sort  of  a  woiiian."  And 
(here  was  one  old  gossip  who  went  to  Montfenneil,  talked  with  tho 
Thenardiers,  and  Baid,  or  her  return  :  "  For  my  thirty-five  francs  1  luve 
fuund  out  all  about  if.      1  have  seen  the  child  !" 

The  busybody  who  «iid  this  was  a  behlame,  called  Mrs  Victurnien, 
keeper  and  guardian  of  everybody's  virtue.  Mrs  Victurnien  was  (ifty- 
f\x  years  old,  and  wore  a  nja>k  of  old  age  over  her  mask  of  ugliness. 
Her  voice  trembled,  aud  fhe  was  capricious.  It  seemed  strange,  but* 
this  woman  had  been  y  mng.  In  her  youth,  in  '93,  fehe  married  a  monk 
who  had  escaped  from  the  cloister  in  a  red  cap,  and  passed  from  the 
I^crnardines  to  the  Jacobins.  She  was  dry,  rough,  sour,  sharp,  crab- 
bed, almost  venomous  ;  never  forgetting  her  monk,  whose  widow  she 
Was,  and  who  had  ruled  and  curbed  her  harshly.  She  was  a  nettlg 
bruised  by  a  frock.  At  the  restoration,  she  became  a  bigot,  and  so  en-  ♦ 
trgetically,  that  the  priests  had  pardoned  her  monk  episode.  She  had 
0  little  property,  which  she  had  bequeathed  to  a  religious  cemmunity 
with  great  flourish.     She  was  in   very  good    standing  at   the    bishop's 


FANTINB.    .  119 

palace  in  Arras.  This  Mrs.  Victumien  then  went  to  Montfcnncil,  and 
returned,  saying:  "I  have  seen  the  child" 

All  this  look  time;  Fautine  had  been  niore  than  a  year  at  the  factory, 
when  one  morning  the  overseer  of  the  workshop  handed  her,  on  behalf 
of  the  mayor,  fifty  francs,  paying  that  she  was  no  loncjer  wantid  in  the 
shop,  and  enjoining  her,  on  behali'  of  tlio  mayor,  to  leave  the  city- 

This  was  the  very  8ame  month  in  which  the  Thcnardierp,  after  iiaving 
asked  twelve  francs  instead  of  six,  had  demanlol  fifteen  francs  instead 
of  twelve. 

Fantine  was  thunderstruck.  She  could  not  leave  the  city;  she  was 
in  debtf)r  her  lodging  and'her  furniture.  Fifty  francs  were  not  tnough 
fco  clear  off  that  debt.  She  faltered  out  some  suppliant  words.  The 
overseer  gave  her  to  understand  that  she  must  leave  the  shop  instantly. 
Fantine  was,  morcorcr,  only  a  moderate  worker.  Ovcrwheluicd  with 
fihamo  even  more  than  with  despair,  she  kft  the  shop,  and  returned  to 
her  room.      Ilcr  fault  then  was  now  known  to  all  ! 

She  felt  no  streng'h  to  say  a  word.  Sh<>  w:is  advised  to  see  the 
mayor;  she  dared  not.  The  mayor  gave  her  fifty  francs  because  he  was 
kind,  and  sent  her  away  because  he  was  jmt.     Slie  biiwed  to  the  decree. 


IX. 

SUCCESS  OF  .MRS.  VICTURNIEX. 

The  monk's  willow  was  then  good  for  something. 

Mr.  Madeleine  hafi  known  nothing  of  all  this.  These  are  combina- 
tions of  events  of  which  life  is  full.  It  was  Mr.  Madeleine's  habit 
scarcely  ever  to  enter  the  women's  workshop. 

He  had  placed  at  the  head  of  this  shop  an  old  spinster  whom  the 
curate  had  recommended  to  him,  and  he;  had  entire  confidence  in  this 
overseer,  a  very  respectable  person,  firm,  just,  upright,  full  of  that  char- 
ity which  consists  in  giving,  but  not  having  to  the  .same  extent  th«t 
charity  which  consists  in  understanding  and  pardoning.  Mr  Made- 
leine Kft  everything  to  her.  The  best  men  are  often  compelled  to  dele- 
gate their  authority.  Tt  was  in  the  cxerci^o  of  this  full  power,  and 
with  the  conviction  that  she  was  doing  right,  (hat  the  overseer  had 
frtimed  the  indictment,  tried,  convicted  and  executed  Fantine. 

As  to  the  fifty  francs,  she  had  given  them  from  a  fund  that'  Mr.  Ma- 
deleine  had    entrusted    her   with    for  alms-^ivintj  and   aid  to  the  work- 

IP 

women,  and  cff  which  she  rendered  no  account. 

Fantine  offered  herself  as  .strvant  in  the  neighborhood  ;  she  went 
from  one  house  to  another.  Nobody  wanted  her.  She  could  not  leave 
the  city.  The  second-hand  dealer  to  whom  she  was  in  debt  fur  her  fur- 
niture, and  such  furniture  I  had  .said  to  her  :  "  If  you  go  away  I  will 
have  you  arrested  as  a  thief"  The  landlord,  whom  she  owed  for  rent, 
paid  to  her:  "  You  are  young  and  pretty,  you  can  pay  ''  She  divided 
the  fifty  francs  between  the  landlord  and  the  dealer,  nturned  to  the  lat- 
ter three-quarters  of  his  goods,  k(  pt  only  what  was  ncccBsary,  and  found 
herself  without  work,  without  position,  having  pothing  but  her  bed,  and 
owing  «;till  about  a  hundred  francs. 


120  LES    HIS^RABLBS. 

She  bogan  to  inako  coarse  shirts  for  the  soldiers  of  the  gnrrison,  and 
oarDi"!  twflvc  scuis  a  day.  Hot  dau<;hter  c^st  her  ten.  It  was  at  this 
tiinn  that  phc  bepnu  to  ^et  behindhand  with  the  Thennrdiers. 

However,  an  old  wnniao,  who  lit  her  candle  for  her  when  n]\o  came 
home  at  iji;:ht,  taught  h^-r  the  art  of  livinj;  in  misery.  Hidiind  living 
on  a  Hit!<'  lies  (Fie  nit  of  living  nn  nnihitig.  They  are  two  rooms;  the 
Iir<t  is  obscure,  the  second  is  utt<Mly  dnrk. 

Tautino  loarned  how  to  do  entirely  without  fire  in  winter,  how  to  give 
•up  the  hird  that  cats  a  fiithing's  worth  of  millet  every  other  day,  how 
to  make  a  coverlid  of  her  petticoat,  and  a  petticoat  of  her  coverlid,  how 
to  «ave  her  candle  in  takinir  her  n)eals  by  the  light  of  an  opposite  window. 
Few  know  how  much  certain  feeble  beings,  who  have  grown  old  in  pri- 
vation and  honesty,  can  extract  from  a  sou.  This  Onally  become  a  tal- 
ent.     Fautine  acquired  thi.s  sub'ime  talent  and  took  heart  a  little. 

During  these  times,  she  sail  to  a  neighbor:  "  IJah  !  I  say  to  myself: 
by  t^lcepingbut  five  hours  and  working  all  the  rest  at  my  sewing,  1  s-hall 
always  succeed  in  nearly  (arning  bread.  And  then,  when  one  is  sad, 
one  eats  less  Weill  what  with  sufferings,  troubles,  a  little  bread  on 
the  one  hand,  anAty  on  the  other,  all  that  will  keep  me  alive." 

In  this  distress,  to  have  had  Iilt  little  daughter  would  have  been  a 
.strange  happiness.  She  thou;:ht  of  having  her  come.  Hut  wliaty  to 
make  her  share  her  privation  ?  and  then,  she  owed  the  Tlienardiers  I 
How  could  she  pay  them?  and  the  journey  I  how  pay  for  that  ? 

The  old  woman,  who  had  given  her  what  might  be  ctilled  lessons  in 
indigent  life,  was  a  piou-j  woman,  Marguerite  by  name,  a  devotee  of  gen- 
uine devotion,  poor,  and  charitable  to  the  poor,  and  also  to  the  rich, 
knowing  how  to  write  just  enough  to  ^ign  Marynittr,  and  believinjj^  in 
God,  which  is  science. 

There  are  many  of  th.ese  virtues  in  low  places;  some  day  they  will 
be  on  high.     This  life  has  a  morrow. 

At  first  Fanline  was  so  much  ashamed  that  she  did  not  dare  to  go  out. 

When  she  was. in  the  street,  she  iu)agine«I  that  people  turned  behind 
htr  and  pointed  at  lur ;  everybcxly  looked  at  her,  and  no  one  greeted 
her  ;  the  sharp  and  cold  disdain  of  the  passers-by  penetrated  her,  body 
and  soul,  like  a  north  wind. 

In  small  eilies  an  unfortunate  woman  seems  to  bo  laid  bare  to  the  sar- 
casm and  the  cu^io^lfy  of  nil.  In  Fari.s,  at  least,  nobody  knows  you, 
and  that  obscurity  is  a  covering.  Oh  I  how  she  longed  to  go  to  Furia ! 
Iinposisiblc.  • 

She  must  indeed  bce(jpie  accustomed  to  disrespect  as  she  had  to  pov- 
erty. Little  by  little  she  learned  her  part.  After  two  or  three  months 
she  (.hook  off  her  shame  and  went  out  as  if  there  were  notJjing  in  the 
way.     "  It  is  all  one  to  me,"  said  she. 

She  went  aud  came,  holding  her  hoad  up  and  wearing  a  bitter  smile, 
and  felt  that  she  was  becoming  .shameless. 

Mrs.  ^'ielnrnien  sometimes  saw  her  pas-s  her  window,  noticed  the  dis- 
tress of  "that  creature,"  thank.'i  (o  her  "put  back  to  her  phce,"  and 
con;.^ratulated  herself      The  malicious  have  a  dark  Jiappiness. 

Kxecssive  work  fatigued  Fantine,  and  the  slight  dry  cougii  that  she 
bad,  increased.  She  sometimes  said  to  her  neighbor,  Marguerite,  "just 
feel  how  hot  my  hands  arc." 


FANTINB.  121 

In  the  moruing,  however,  when  with  an  old  broken  comb  she  combed 
her  fine  %air  which  flowed  down  in  silky  waves,  she  enjoyed  a  moment 
of  happiness. 


RESULTS    OF    THE    SUCCESS. 

She  had  been  discharged  towards  the  end  of  winter;  sammcr  passed 
away,  but  winter  returned.  Short  days,  less  work.  In  winter  there  is 
no  heat,  no  light,  no  noon,  evening  toucbes  morning,  there  is  fog,  and 
mist,  the  window  is  frosted,  and  you  cannot  see  clearly.  The  sky  is  but 
the  mouth  of  a  cave.  The  whole  day  is  the  cave.  The  sun  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  pauper.  Frightful  season  !  Winter  changes  into  stone 
the  water*  of  heavcli  and  the  heart  of  man.  Her  creditors  harrasaed 
her. 

Fantineearned  too  little.  Her  debts  ha'S  increased.  The  Thenar- 
diors  being  poorly  paid,  were  constantly  writing  letters  to  her,  the  con- 
tents of  which  disheartened  her,  while  the  postage  was  ruining  her. 
One  day  they  wrote  to  her  that  her  little  Cosette  was  entirely  destitute 
of  clothing  for  the  cold  weather,  that  she  needed  a  woolen  skirt,  and 
that  her  mother  must  send  at  least  ten  francs  for  that.  She  received 
the  letter  and  crushed  it  in  her  hand  for  a  whole  day.  In  the  evening 
she  went  into  a  barber's  shop,  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  pulled  out 
her  comb.     Her  beautiful  fair  hair  fell  below  her  waist. 

"  What  beautiful  hair  !"  exclaimed  the  barber. 

"How  much  will  you  give  me  for  it?"  ^aid  she. 

*'  Ten  fcancs." 

"Cut  it  off." 

She  bought  a  knit  skirt  and  sent  it  to  the  Thenardiere. 

This  skirt  made  the  Thenardiers  furious.  It  was  the  money  that 
they  wanted.  They  gave  the  skirt  to  Eponine.  The  pDor  Lark  still 
shivered. 

Fantine  thought :  "  My  child  is  no  longer  cold,  I  have  clothed  her 
with  my  hnir."  She  put  on  a  little  round  cap  which  concealed  her 
shorn  head,  and  with  that  she  was  still  pretty.  • 

A  gloomy  work  was  going  on  in  Famine's  heart. 

When  .«he  saw  that  she  could  no  longer  dress  her  hair,  she  began  to 
look  with  hatred  on  all  around  her.  She  had  long  sharied  in  the  uni- 
versal veneration  for  Father  Madeleine;  nevertheless,  by  dint  of  re- 
'peating  to  herself  that  it  was  he  who  had  turned  her  away,  and  that  hfi 
was  the  cause  of  her  misfortunes,  sha  came  to  Irate  him  also,  and  espe- 
cially. When  she  pa.ssod  the  factory  at  the  hours  in  which  the  laborers 
were  at  the  door,  she  forced  herself  to  laugh  and  sing 

An  (Tld  working-woman  who  saw  her  singing  and  laughing  in  this  way,, 
said :  "  There  is  a  girl  who  will  come  to  a  bad  end." 

She  worshipped  her  child. 

The  lower  she  sank,  tie  more  .ill  became  gloomy  around  her,  the  more 
the  sweet  little  angel  shone  out  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart.     She  would 
9  • 


122  %  I'BS    MISKRABLE6. 

MY  :  "  When  I  am  rich   I   shall  have  my  Cosette  with    me  ;"  and  she 
laughed.     The  cough  did  not  leave  her,  ayd  she  had  night  swtnts. 

Uoe  day  ?ho  re:tivcd  from  the  Thenardiers  a  letter  in  these  words: 
"Coeettc  is  pick  of  an  epidemic  disease.  A  miliary  fever  tlicy  call  it. 
The  drups  necessary  are  dear.  It  is  ruining  us,  and  we  can  no  longer 
pay  for  them.  Unless  you  send  us  forty  francs  within  a  week,  the  littlo 
one  will  die." 

She  burst  out  laughing,  and  said  to  her  old  neighbor :  "  Oh  !  they 
are  nice!  forty  francs  !  think  of  that!  that  is  two  Napoleons!  Where 
do  they  think  I  can  get  them  ?      Are  they  fools,  these  boors?" 

She  went,  however,  to  the  staircase,  near  a  dormer  window,  and  read 
the  letter  again. 

Then  she  went  down  stairs  and  out  of  doors,  running  and  jamping, 
Btill  laughing. 

Somebody  who  met  her  said  to  her  :  "  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
that  you  are  so  gay  ?" 

She  answered  :  "  A  stupid  joke  that  some  country  people  •have  juat 
written  me.     They  ask  me  for  forty  franc?  ;   the  boors  I" 

As  she  passed  through  the  Fquare,  she  saw  many  people  gathered 
about  an  odd-looking  carriage,  on  tho  top  of  which  stood  a  man  in  red 
clothes,  declaiming.  lie  was  a  juggler  and  a  travelling  dentist,  and 
was  offering  to  the  public  complete  sets  of  teeth,  opiates,  powders  and 
elixirs. 

Fantine  joined  the  crovid  and  began  to  laugh  with  the  rest  at  this 
harangue,  in  which  were  mingled  slang  for  the  rabble  and  jargon  for 
the  better  sort.  The  puller  of  teeth  s;iw  this  beautiful  girl  laughing, 
and  suddenly  called  out:  "you  have  pretty  teeth,  you  girl  who  are 
laughing  there.  If  you  will  sell  mc  your  two  iucisors,  I  will  give  you 
a  gold  Napoleon  for  each  of  them." 

•'  What  is  that  ?     ^^^lat  are  my  incisors?"  asked  Fantine. 
"The   in;isors,"  resumed  the   professor  of  dentistry,  "are   the  front 
teeth,  the  two  upper  ones." 

"  How  horrible  !"  cried  Fantine. 

"  Two  Napoleons !"  grumbled  a  toothless  old  hag  who  stood  by. 
"  Ik)W  lucky  she  is  I" 

Fantine  fled  away  and  stopped  her  cars  not  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of 
the  man  who  called  after  her  :   "  Consider,  my  beauty  I   two  Napoleons  ! 
how  much  good  they  will  do  you  !     If  you  have  the  courage  for  it,  come 
this  evening  to  the  inn  of  tho  TiUac  d  Argmt ;  you  will  dud  me  there." 
Fantine  returned    homa  ;  she  was   raving,  and    told    the   story  to  her 
good   neighbor,   Marguerite:  "Do  you   understand   that?    isn't   he   an 
abominable  man  ?     Why  do  they  let  such  peopje  go  about  the  country  ? 
I'ull  out  my  two  front  tteth  !  why,  I  should    be   horrible!     The  hair  is 
bad  enough,  but  the  teeih  I     Oh  !  what  a  monster  of  a  man  !     I  would 
rather  throw  myself  from  the  fifth  story,  head  first,  to  the   pavement! 
He  told  me  that  he  would  be  this  evening  at  the  Tillac  cC Anjcnt." 
"  And  what  was  it  ho  offered  you  V  asked  Marguerite. 
"Two  Napoleons:" 
"  That  is  forty  francs." 

"Yes,"  said  Fantine,  "that  makes  forty  francs."     » 
She  became  thoughtful  and  went  about  her  work.     In  a  quarter  of 


FANTINE.  •        123 

an  hour  she  left  her  sewing  and  went  to  the  stairs  to  read  again  the 
Thenardier's  letter. 

On  her  return  she  said  to  Marguerite,  who  was  at  work  near  her : 

'<  What  does  this  mean,  a  miliary  fever  ?     Do  you  know  ?"  ' 

"  Yes,"  answered  (he  old  woman,  "  it  is  a  disease.", 

"  Then  it  needs  a  good  many  drugs?" 

**  Yes  ;  terrible  drugs." 

"  How  does  it  come  upon  you  ?" 
V  It  is  a  disease  that  comes  in  a  moment." 

"  Does  it  attack  children  ?" 

"  Children,  especially." 

"Do  people  die  of  it?" 

"  Very  often,"  said  Marguerite. 

Fantinc  withdrew  and  went  once  more  to  read  over  the  letter  on  the 
stairs. 

In  the  evening  she  went  out,  and  took  the  direction  of  the  Ilue  de 
Paris,  where  the  inns  are. 

The  next  morning,  when  Marguerite  went  into  Fantinels  chamber  be- 
fore daybreak,  for  they  always  worked  together,  and  so  made  one  candle 
do  for  the  twf»,  she  found  Fantine  seated  on  her  couch  pale  and  icy. 
She  had  not  been  in  bed.  Her  cap  had  fallen  upon  her  knees.  The 
candle  had  burned  all  night,  and  was  almost  consumed. 

Marguerite  stopped  upon  the  threshold,  petrified  by  this  wild  disor- 
der, and  exclaimed  :  "Good  Lord  !  the  candle  is  all  burned  out.  Some- 
thing has  happened." 

then 'she  looked  at  Fantine,  who  sadly  turned  her  shorn  head. 

Fantine  had  grown  ten  years  older  since  evening. 

"  Bless  us  !"  said  Marguerite,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Fan- 
tine?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Fantine.  •'' Quite  the  contrary.  My  child  will  not 
die  with  that  frightful  sickness  for  lack  of  aid.     I  am  satisfied." 

So  saying,  she  showed  the  old  woman  two  Napoleons  that  glistened  on 
the  table. 

"  Oh  !  good  God  I"  said  Marguerite.  "  Why,  there  is  a  fortune  ! 
W^here  did  you  get  these  loui,sd'or?" 

"I  got  them,"  answered  Fantine. 

At  the  same  time  she  smiled.  The  candle  lit  up  her  face.  It  was  a 
sickening  smile,  for  the  corners  of  her  mouth  were  stained  with  blood, 
and  a  dark  cavity  revealed  itself  there. 

The  two  teeth  were  gone. 

She  sent  the  forty  francs  to  Montfermeil. 

And  this  was  a  ruse  of  the  Thenardiers  to  get  money.  Cosett^  was 
not  sick. 

Fantine  threw  her  looking-glass  out  of  the  window,  long  before  she 
had  left  her  little  room  on  the  second  story  for  an  attic  room  with  no 
other  fastening  than  a  latch  ;  one  of  those  garret  rooms  the  ceiling  of 
which  makes  an  angle  with  the  floor  and  hits  your  head  at  every  move- 
ment. The  poor  cannot  go  to  the  end  of  their  chamber  or  to  the  end 
of  their  dentiny,  but  by  bending  continunlly  more  and  more.  She  no 
longer  had  a  bed,  she  retained  a  rag  that  she  called  her  coverlid,  a  mat- 
tress on  the  floor,  and  a  worn  out  straw  chair.     Her  little  rose-bush  wai 


124        ,  LBS    MI8KRABLES. 

dried  up  in  the  corner,  forgotten.  In  the  other  corner  was  a  butter- 
pot  for  water,  which  froze  in  the  winter,  and  the  different  levels  at 
which  the  water  had  stood  remained  marked  a  18ng  time  by  circles  of 
ice.  She  had  lost  her  modesty,  she  was  losing  her  cwjuetry.  The  last 
sign.  She  would  go  out  with  a  dirty  cap.  Either  from  want  of  time 
or  indifference  she  no  lon<];er  washed  her  linen.  As  fast  as  the  heels  of 
her  stockings  wore  out  she  drew  them  down  in  her  shoes.  This  was 
shown  by  certain  perpendicular  wrinkles.  She  mended  her  old,  worn- 
out  corsets  with  bits  of  calico  which  were  torn  by  the  slightest  motion. 
Tier  creditors  fjuarrellcd  with  her  ami  gave  bet  no  rest.  She  met  them 
in  the  street,  fhe  met  tliera  again  on  her  stairs.  She  passed  whole 
nights  in  weeping  and  thinking  She  had  a  strange  brilliancy  in  her 
eves,  and  a  constant  pain  in  hep  shoulder  near  the  top  of  her  left 
gboulder-blade.  She  coughed  a  great  deal.  She  hated  Father  Made- 
leine thoroughly,  and  never  complained.  She  sewed  seventeen  hours  a 
day;  but  a  prison  contractor,  who  was  working  prisoners,  suddenly  cut 
down  the  price,  and  this  reduced  the  day's  wages  of  free  laborers  to 
nine  sous.  Seventeen  hours  of  work,  and  nine  sous  a  day  !  Her  cred- 
itors were  more  pitiless  than  ever.  The  second-hand  dealer,  who  had 
taken  back  nearly  all  his  furniture,  was  constantly  saying  to  her  :  "  When 
will  you  pay  me,  wench  ?  " 

Good  Ciod  !  what  did  they  want  her  to  do  ?  Sfie  felt  herself  hunted 
down,  and  something  of  the  wild  beast  began  to  develop  within  her. 
About  the  same  time,  Thenardier  wrote  to  heV  that  really  he  had  waited 
with  too  much  generosity,  and  that  he  must  have  a  hundred  francs  im- 
mediately, or  else  little  Cosette,  just  convalescing  after  her  severe  sick- 
ness, would  be  turned  out  of  doors  into  the  cold  and  upon  the  highway, 
and  that  she  would  become  what  she  could,  and  would  perish  if  she 
must.  "A  hundred  francs,"  thought  Tantine.  "  IJut  where  is  there 
a  place,  where  one  can  earn  a  huu4i"cd  .scus  a  day  ?  " 
"  Come  !  "  said  she,  "  I  will  sell  what  is  left." 
The  unfortunate  creature  became  a  woman  of  the  town. 


XL 

CHR18TU8   NOS    LlBERAVIT. 

What  is  thi.><  history  of  Faiitiue  ?     Itjs  society  buying  a  slave. 

From  whom  ?     From   misery. 

From  hungir,  from  cold,  from  loneliness,  from  abandonment,  from 
privation.  Melancholy  barter.  A  soul  for  a  bit  of  bread.  Misery 
makes  the  offer,  society  accepts. 

The  holy  law  of  Jesus  Christ  gorerns  our  civilization,  but  it  does 
not  yet  pernicate  it ;  it  is  said  that  slavery  has  disappeared  from  Euro- 
pean civilization.  That  is  a  mi.stake.  It  still  exists;  but  it  weighs 
now  only  upon  woman,  and  it  is  called  prostitution. 

It  Weighs  upon  woman,  that   is  to   say,  upon  grace,  upon  feebleness, 
upon  beauty,  upon  maternity.     This  is  not  one  of  the  least  of  man's 
shamcB. 
•  At  the  stage  of  this  mourn fuFdrama  at  which  we  have  now  arrived, 


FANTINE.  125 

Fantine  lias  nothing  left  of  what  she  had  formerly  been.  She  has  be- 
come marble  in  becoming  corrupted.  Whoever  touches  her  feels  a  chill' 
She  goes  her  ways;  she  wears  a  dishonored  and  severe  face.^  Life  and 
social  order- have  spoken  their  last  word  to  her.  All  that  can  happen 
to  her  has  happened.  She  has  endured  all,  borne  all,  experienced  all, 
suffered  all,  lost  all,  wept  for  all.  She  is  resigned,  with  that  resigna- 
tion that  resembles  indifference  as  death  resembles  sleep.  She  shuns 
nothing  now.  She  fears  nothing  now.  Every  cloud  falls  upon  her, 
and  all  the  ocean  sleeps  over  her  !  What  matters  it  to  her  !  the 
sponge  is  already  drenched. 

She  believed  so  at  least,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  imagine  that  man  can 
exhaust  his  destiny,  or  can  roach  the  bottom  of  anything  whatever. 

Alas  !  what  are  all  these  destinies  tfius  driven  pell-mell  ?  whither  go 
they  ?  why  are  they  so  ? 

lie  who  knows  that,  sees  all  the  shadow. 

He  is  alone.     His  name  is  God. 


xir. 

THE   IDLENESS   OF    MONSIEUR   BAMATABOIS. 

There  is  in  all  small  cities,  and  there   was  at  M sur  M- 


particuiar,  a  set  of  young  men  who  nibble  their  fifteen  hundred  livres 
of  income  in  the  country  with  the  same  air  with  which  their  fellows 
d^'our  two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  at  Paris.  They  are  beings 
of  the  great  neuter  species ;  geldings,  parasites,  nobodies,  who  have 
a  little  land,  a  little  folly,  and  a  little  wit,  who  would  be  clowns  in  a 
drawing  room,  and  think  themselves  gentlemen  in  a  bar-room,  who  talk 
about  "  my  fields,  my  woods,  my  peasants,"  hiss  the  actresses  at  the 
theatre  to  prove  that  they  are  persons  of  taste,  quarrel  with  the  officers 
of  the  garrison  to  show  that  they  arc  gallant,  hunt,  smoke,  gape,  drink, 
take  ^nuff,  play  billiards,  stare  at  passengers  getting  out  of  the  coach, 
live  at  the  cafe,  hold  fast  to  a  sou,  overdo  the  fashions,  despise  women, 
wear  out  their  old  boots,  copy  London  as  reflected  from  Paris,  and  Paris 
as  reflected  from  Pont-a-Mousson,  grow  stupid  as  they  grow  old,  do  no 
work,  do  no  good,  and  not  much  harm. 

If  they  were  richer^  we  should  say  :  they  are  dandies;  if  they  were 
poorer,  we  should  say  :  they  are  vagabonds.  They  are  simply  idlers. 
Among  these  idlers  there  are  some  that  are  bores,  some  that  are  bored, 
some  dreamers,  and  some  jokers. 

Eight  or  ten  months  after  what  has  been  roIat<:d  in  the  preceding 
pages,  in  the  esMy  part  of  Janu.iry,  \^'l'.i,  one  evening  when  it  had  been 
snowing,  one  of  these  dandies,  one  of  these  idlers,  very  warmly  wrapped 
in  one  of  those  large  cloaks  which  completed  the  fashionable  costume  in 
cold  weather,  was  amusing  himself  with  tormenting  a  crcatAire  who  was 
walking  back  and  forth  before  the  window  of  the  officers!  cafi^,  in  a  ball 
dress,  with  her  neck  and  t.houldcr8  bare,  and  flowers  upon  fcer  head.  The 
dandy  was  smoking,  for  that  was  decidedly  the  fashion. 

Earcry  time  that  the  woman  passed  before  hrm,  he  threw  ou£  at  her, 


126  LES   MIS^RABLES. 

» 
with  a  puff  of  smoke  from  bis  cigar,  some  remark  which  he  thought  was 
witty   and   plcaFant,  as:    "How    ugly   you   are  I"      Arc   you   tryiug 
•  to   hide?"     Yuu   have  lost  your  teeth  !"  etc  ,  etc. 

This  gentleman's  name  was  Mr.  Bamatabois.  The  woman,  a  rueful, 
bedizened  spectre,  who  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards  upon  the 
snow,  did  not  answer  him,  did  not  even  look  at  him,  but  continued  her 
walk  in  pilcncc  and  with  a  dismal  regularity  that  brought  her  under  his 
sarcasm  every  five  minutes,  like  the  condemned  soldier,  who,  at  stated 
perioJs,  returns  under  the  rods.  This  failure  to  seture  attention  doubt-  ^ 
less 'piqued  the  loafor,  who,  taking  advantage  of  the  moment  whoa  she  ' 
turned,  came  up  behind  hor  with  a  stealthy  step,  and  stifling  his  laugh- 
ter, stooped  down,  .seized  a  handful  of  snow  from  the  sidewalk,  and 
threw  it  hastily  into  her  back,  between  her  naked  shoulder.^.  The  girl 
roared  with  rage,  turned,  bounded  like  a  panther,  and  rushed  upon  the 
man,  burying  her  nails  in  his  face,  and  using  the  most  frightful  words 
that  ever  fell  from  the  off-scouring  of  a  guard-house.  These  insults 
were  thrown  out  in  a  voice  roughened  by  brandy,  from  a  htdeous  mouth 
which  lacked  the  two  front  teeth.     It  was  Fantine. 

At  the  noi.se  which  this  made,  the  officers  came  out  of  the  caf6,  Ik 
crowd  gathered,  and  a  large  circle  was  formed,  laughing,  jeering  and 
applauding,  around  this  centre  of  attraction,  composed  of  two  beings 
who  could  hardly  be  recognized  as  a  man  and  a  woman,  the  man  defend- 
ing "himself,  his  hat  knocked  oif,  the  wuman  kicking  and  striking,  her 
bead  bare,  shrieking,  toothles.s,  and  without  hair,  livid  with  wrath,  and 
horrible. 

Suddenly  a  tall  mau  advanced  quickly  from  the  crowd,  seized  <he  wo- 
man by  her  muddy  satin  waist,  and  saiil —  • 

"  Follow  me  !" 

The  woman  raised  her  head  ;  her  furious  voice  died  out  at  once.  Her 
eyes  were  glas.sy ;  from  livid  she  had  become  pale,  and  she  shuddered 
with  a  shudder  of  terror.     She  recognized  Javert. 

The  dandy  hastened  to  steal  away. 


XIII. 

SOLUTION    OF    SOME    QUKSTIONS    OF    MUNICIPAL    POLICE. 

Javeit  dismissed  the  bystanders,  broke  up  the  eirele,  and  walked  off 
rapidly  towards  the  IJurcau  of  I'olice,  which  is  at  the  end  of  the  square, 
dragging  the  poor  crcalure  after  him.  She  made  no  resistance,  but  fol- 
lowed mechanically.  Neither  .'puke  a  word.  The  flock  of  spectators, 
in  a  paro.\y.sm  of  joy,  followed  with  their  jokes.  The  deepest  misery, 
an  opportunity  fi)r  obscenity. 

When  they  reached  the  Bureau  of  Police,  which  was  a  low  hall  warmed 
by  a  stove,  and  guarded  by  a  sentinel,  with  a  prated  window  looking  on 
the  street,  Javert  opened  the  door,  entered  with  Fantine,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  to  the  great  di.>-appointment  of  the  curious  crowd,  who 
stood  upon  tiptoe  aad  stretched  their  necks  before  the  dirty  window  of 
the  guard-hou.se,  in  their  cndcavora  to  see.  Curiosity  is  a  kind  of  glut- 
ton.    To  tee  is  to  devours  ♦ 


FANTINE.  127 

On  eulering,  Fantine  crouched  down  in  a  corner  motionless  and  silent, 
like  a  frightened  dog. 

The  sergeant  of  the  guard  placed  a  lighted  candle  on  the  table.  Ja- 
vert  gat  dovrn,  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  stamped  paper,  and  began 
to  write. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  signed  his  name,  folded  the  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  the  sergeant  of  the  guard,  8a3ing: 

'•Take  three  men  and  carry  this  girl  to  jail." 

Then  turning  to  l^intihe  : 

"  You  are  in  for  six  months."  • 

The  hapless  woman  shuddered. 

"Six  months!  six  months  in  prison  !''  cried  she.  "Six  months  to 
earn  seven  sous  a  day  !  but  what  will  become  of  Cosette  ?  my  daughter  I 
my  daughter !  Why,  I  still  owe  more  than  a  hundred  francs  to  the 
Thenardicrs,  Mr.  Inspector,  do  you  know  that?"  ' 

She  dragged  herself  along  on  the  floor,  dirtied  by  the  muddy  boots  of 
all  these  men,  without  rising,  clasping  her  hands,  and  moving  rapidly  on 
her  knees. 

"  Mr.  Javert,"  said  she,  "I  beg  your  pity.  I  assure  you  that  I  was 
not  in  the  wrong.  If  you  had  seen  the  beginning,  you  would  have  seen. 
I  swear  to  you  by  the  good  God  that  I  was  not  in  the  wrong.  That 
gentleman,  whom  I  do  not  know,  fhrcw  snow  in  my  back.  Have  they 
the  right  to  throw  snow  into  our  backs  when  we -are  going  along  quietly 
without  doing  any  harm  to  anybody  ?  That  made  me  wild.  I  am  not 
very  well,  you  see  !  and  then  he  had  already  been  saying  things  to  me 
for  some  time.  '  You  are  homely  !'  '  You  have  no  teeth  !'  I  know  too 
well  that  I  have  lost  my  teeth.  I  did  not  do  anything;  I  thought : 
'  He  is  a  gentlQman  who  is  amusing  himself.'  I  was  not  immodest  witb- 
him  ;  I  did  not  speak  to.  him.  It  was  then  that  he  threw  the  snow  at 
me.  Mr.  Javert,  my  good  Mr.  Inspector!  was  there  no  one  there  who 
saw  it  and  can  tell  you  that  this  is  true  ?  I  perhaps  did  wrong  to  get 
angry.  You  know,  at  the  first  moment,  we  cannot  master  ourselves. 
We  are  excitable.  And  then,  to  have  something  so  cold  thrown  into 
your  back  when  you  are  not  expecting  it.  I  did  wrong  to  spoil  the  gen- 
tleman's hat.  Why  has  he  gone  away  ?  1  would  ask  his  pardon.  Oh, 
I  would  beg  his  pardon  !  Have  pity  on  me  now  this  once,  Mr.  Javert. 
Stop,  you  don't  know  how  it  is,  in  the  prisons  they  only  earn  seven 
sous;  that  is  not  the  fault  of  the  government,  but  they  earn  seven  sous, 
and  just  think  that  |  have  a  hundred  francs  to  pay,  or  else  they  will  turn 
away  my  little  one.  O  my  God  !  I  cannot  have  her  with  nie.  What  I 
do  is  so  vile  I  O  my  Cosette  !  O  my  little  angel  of  the  good,  blessed 
Virgin,  what  will  she  become,  poor  fami.shed  child  I  I  tell  you  the 
Thenardiers  are  innkeepers,  boors;  they  have  no  consideration.  They 
must  have' money.  Do  not  put  me  in  prison  !  Do  you  see,  she  is  a 
little  one  that  they  will  put  out  on  the  highway,  to  do  what  she  can  in 
the  very  heart  of  winter ;  you  must  feel  pity  fur  such  a  thing,  good  Mr. 
Javert.  If  she  were  older,  she  could  earn  her  living,  but  she  cannot  at 
such  an  anc.  I  am  not  a  bad  woman  at  heart.  It  is  not  laziness  and 
appetite  that  brought  me  to  this.  I  have  drunk  brandy,  but  it  was 
from  mi-sery.  I  do  not  like  it,  but  it  stupefies.  Have  pity  on  me,  Mr. 
Javert. 


128  LES    MIS^RABLfeS. 

She  talked  thus,  bent  double,  shaken  with  sobs,  blinded  by  t^^ars,  her 
neck' bare,  clcDcliin;;  her  hands,  conghin-;  with  a  dry  and  short  cough, 
8t«nimcring  very  feebly  with  an  a<;oni2t'd  voice.  Great  grief  is  a  divine 
and  terrible  radiance  which  transfigures  the  wretched.  At  that  moment 
Fantine  had  npain  become  beautiful.  At  certain  moments  she  stopped 
and  tenderl}'  kissed  tiie  poiiceman's  coat.  She  would  have  softened  a 
heart  of  granite  ;  but  you  cannot  soften  a  heart  of  wood. 

"  Come,"  said  Javcrt,  "  I  have  heard  you.  Haven't  you  got  through  ? 
March  off  at  once  I  You  have  your  six  months  !  The  Eternal  Father 
in  person  could  do  nothing  for  jjiu." 

At  those  solemn  words,  The  Eternal  Father  in  person  could  do  no- 
thttuj /or  i/oH,  tihc  undcri>tood  that  her  sentence  was  fixed.  She  sank 
down,  murmuring  : 

"  Mercy  !" 

The  soldiers  seized  her  by  the  arms. 

A  few  minutes  before  a  man  had  entered  without  being  noticed.  He 
had  closed  the  door  and  stood  with  his  back  against  it,  and  beard  the 
despairing  supplication  of  Fantine. 

When  the  soldiers  put  their  hands  upon  the  wretched  being,  who 
•  would  not  rise,  he  stepped  forward  out  of  the  shadow  and  said : 

"  One  mdmcut,  if  you  please  !'' 

Javcrt  raised  his  eyes,  and  recognized  Mr.  Madeleine.  He  look  off 
bis  hat,  and  bowing  with  a  sort  of  angry  awkwardness  : 

"Pardon,  Mr.  Mayor " 

This  word,  Mr.  iMayor,  had  a  strange  effect  upon  Fantine.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  at  once,  like  a  spectre  rising  from  the  gniund,  pushed 
back  the  soldiers  with  her  arms,  walked  straight  to  Mr.  Madeleine  be- 
fore they  could  stop  her,  and  gazing  at  him  fixedly,  with  a  wild  look, 
she  exclaimed  : 

"  Ah  !  it  is  you  then  who  ar<?  Mr.  Mayor  !" 

Then  she  burst  out  laughing  and  spit  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Madeleine  wiped  his  face  and  said: 

"Inspector  Javert,  set  this  woaian  at  liberty  " 

JaA'ert  felt  as  though  he  were  on  the  point  of  losing  his  senses.  He 
experienced,  at  that  moment,  blow  on  blow  and  almost  simultaneously, 
the  most  violent  emotions  ho  had  known  in  hi.s  life.  To  see  a  woman 
of  the  town  spit  in  the  face  of  a  mayor,  was  a  thing  so  monstrous  that 
ia  his  most  daring  suppositions  Im  would  have  thought  it  s.ierilege  to 
believe  it  p(»ssible.  On  tlie  other  jiami,  deep  down  in  his  thought,  he 
dimly  brought  into  hideous  a.«soeiatit>n  what  this  woman  was  and  what 
this  mayor  might  be,  and  then  lie  perceived  with  horror  .'iumetliing  in- 
describably simple  in  this  prodigious  assault.  But  when  he  saw  this 
mayor,  this  magistrate,  wipe  his  face  tiuiefl}'  and  say  :  get  this  iroman  at 
I iberf//,  he  was  stupefied  with  amazement;  thought  and  speech  alike 
failed  him;  the  sum  of  possible  astonishment  bad  been  overpassed.  He 
remained  speechless. 

The  mayor's  words  were  not  less  strange  a  blow  to  Fantine.  Site 
raised  her  bare  arm  and  clung  to  the  damper  of  the  slove  as  if  she  were 
staggered.  Meanwhile  she  looked  all  around,  and  began  to  talk  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  speaking  to  herself: 

"  At  liberty  I    they  let  me  go  !     I  am  not  to  go  to  prison  for  six 


FANTINE.  *  129 

monlLs!  Who  was  it  said  that?  It  is  not  possible  that  anybody 
said  that.  I  misunderstood.  That  cannot  be  this  monster  of  a  mayor  ! 
Was  it  you,  my  good  Mr.  Javert,  who  toh^  thcra  to  set  mo  at  lib- 
erty? Oh!  look  now!  I  will  tell  you  and  you  will  let  me  go. 
This  monster  of  a  mnyor,  this  old  whelp  of  a  mayor,  he  is  the  cau.se 
of  all  this.  Think  of  it,  Mr.  Javert,  he  turned  mc  away  !  on  account 
of  a  parcel  of  bejrgars  who  told  stories  in  the  workshop.  Was  not 
that  horrible  !  To  turn  away  a  poor  girl  who  does  her  work  hon- 
estly !  Since  that  I  could  not  cam  enough,  and  all  the  wretchedness 
has  come.  Mr.  Javert,  it  is  you  who  said  that  they  must  let  mc 
go,  is  it  not?  Go  and  inquire:  speak  to  my  landlord;  I  pay  my 
TCti^  and  he  will  surely  tell  you  that  I  am  honest.  Oh,  dear,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I  have  touched — I  did  not  know  it— the  damper  of 
the  stove,  and  it  smokes." 

Mr.  Madeleine  listened  with  profound  attention.  While  she  was 
talking,  he  had  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat,  had  taken  out  his  purse  and 
opened  it.  It  was  empty,  lie  had  put  it  back  into  his  pocket.  lie 
said  to  Fantine  : 

"  How  much  did  you  say  that  you  owed  ?" 

Fantine,  who  had  only  looked  at  Javert,  turned  towards  him  :  m 

"  Who  said  anything  to  you  ?" 

Then  addressing  herself  to  the  soldiers  : 

"  Say  now,  did  you  see  how  I  spit  in  his  face  ?  Oh  !  you  old  scoun- 
drel of  a  mayor,  xyou  come  here  to  frighten  me,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of 
you.    I  am  afraid  of  Mr.  Javert.    I  am  afraid  of  my  good  Mr.  Javert !" 

As  she  said  thfs  she  turned  again  towards  the  inspector : 

"  Now,  you  see,  Mr.  Inspector,  you  must  be  just.  I  know  that  you 
are  just,  IMr.  Inspector;  in  fact,  it  is  very  simple,  d  man  who  jocosely 
throws  a  little  snow  into  a  woman's  back,  that  ma'kes  them  laugh,  the 
officers,  they  must  divert  themselves  with  something,  and  we  poor  things 
are  only  for  their  amusement.  And  then,  you,  you  come,  you  are 
obliged  to  keep  order,  you  arrest  the  woman  who  has  done  wrong,  but 
on  reflection,  as  you  are  good,  you  tell  them  to  set  me  at  liberty,  that  is 
for  my  little  one,  because  six  months  in  prison,  that  would  prevent  my 
supporting  my  child.  Only  never  come  back  again,  wretch  !  Oh  !  I 
will  never  come  back  again  Mr.  Javert!  They  may  do  any  thing  they 
like  with  me  now,  I  will  imt  stir.  Only,  to  day,  you  see,  I  cried  out 
because  that  hurt  me.  I  did  not  in  the  least  expect  that  snow  from  that 
gentleman,  and  then,  I  have  told  you,  I  am  not  very  well,  I  cough,  I 
have  something  in  my  chest  like  a-balF  which  burns  me,  and  the  doctor 
tells  me  :***  be  careful."  Stop,  feel,  give  mo  your  hand,  don't  be  afraid, 
here  it  is." 

She  wept  no  more  ;  her  voice  was  caressing;  she  placed  Ja vert's  great 
coarse  hand  upon  her  white  and  delicate  chest,  and  looked  at  him  smil- 
ing. 

Suddenly  she  hastily  adjusted  the  disorder  of  her  garmeDt,<«,  smo<jthed 
down^he  folds  of  her  dress,  wliicli,  in  dragging  herself  al»out,  had  been 
raised  almost  as  Irigh  a.s  her  knees,  and  walked  towards  the  door,  saying 
in  an  undertone  to  the  soldiers,  with  a  friendly  nod  of  the  head  : 

♦'  Boys,  the  Inspector  said  that  you  must  release  me ;  I  am  going." 


130  '  LES    MIS^RABLBS. 

Sbc  put  her  hand  upon  the  latch.  One  more  step  and  she  would  be 
in  the  street. 

Javcrt  until  that  moiiK^t  had  remained  standinp,  motionless,  his  eyes 
fixc'l  on  the  pruund,  lookinj^,  in  the  niiJst  of  the*  scene,  like  a  statue 
whicli  was  waiting  to  bo  placed  in  position. 

The  sound  of  the  latch  roused  him.  Ho  rai.scd  his  head  with  an  ex- 
pression of  sovereign  authoritjy',  an  cxprcs.sit>n  always  the 'more  frightful 
in  proportion  as  power  is  vested  in  being.s  of  lower  grade;  ferocious  io 
the  wild  beast,  atrocious  in  the  undeveloped  man. 

"Sergeant,"  exclaimed  he,  "don't  you  see  that  this  vagabond  18 
going  off?     Who  told  jou  to  lot  her  goi'" 

"  I,"  .'^aid  iMadelciDC.  • 

At  the  words  of  Javert,  Fantine  had  trembled  and  dropped  the  latch, 
as  a  thiof  who  i.s  cau;^'lit,  (Lrops  what  he  has  stolen.  When  Madeleine 
spoke,  she  turned,  and  from  that  moment,  without  saying  a  word,  with- 
out even  daring  to  breathe  freely,  she  looked  by  turns  from  Madeleine 
to  Javert  and  from  Javert  to  Madeleine,  as  the  one  or  the  other  was 
speaking. 

It  was  dear  that  Javcrt  must  have  been,  as  they  say,  "  thrown  off 
^is  balance,"  or  he  would  not  have  allowed  him.^elf  to  address  the  ser- 
geant as  he  did,  after  the  direction  of  the  mayor  to  set  Fantine  at  li- 
berty. Had  he  forgotten  the  presence  of  the  mayor?  Had  he  finally 
decided  wiihin  himself  that  it  was  impossible  for  "an  authority"  to 
give  such  an  ordorj  and  that  very  certainly  the  mayor  must  have  said 
one  thing  when  he  meant  another?  Or,  in  view  of  the  enormities 
which  he  had  witnessed  for  the  last  two  hours,  did  he  say  to  himself 
that  it  was  necessary  to  revert  to  extreme  measures,  that  it  was  neces- 
sary for  the  little  to  make  it.self  groat,  for  the  detedivc  to  transform 
himself  into  a  magistrate,  for  tho  polieeman  to  become  a  judge,  and  that 
in  this  fearful  extremity,  order,  law,  morality,  govurnmeut,  society  as  a 
^hole,  were  personified  in  him,  Javert? 

However   this    might    be,  when  Mr.  Madeleine    pronounced    that  / 
which  wo  have  just  .heard,  the  Inspector  of   Police,  Javert,  turned  to- 
wards the  Mayor,  pale,  cold,  with  blue  lips;  a  desperate  look,  his  wholo 
body  agitated  with  an  iinperceptible  tiemor,  and,  an  unheard-of  thing, 
said  to  him,  wiili  a  downea.'^t  look,  but  a  firm  voice  : 
"  Mr.  Mayor,  that  cannot  be  done."         '• 
"Why?"  said  Mr.  iMadeleino. 
"This  wret'.-hed  woman  has  insulted  a  citizen." 

"Inspector  Javert,"  replied  Mr.  Madeleine,  in  a  conciliating  and 
calm  tone,  'listen.  You  are  an  honest  man,  and  I  have  no  objection 
to  explain  myself  to  you.  The  truth  is  this.  I  was  passing  through 
tho  Square  when  you  arrested  this  woman;  tlu-re  was  a  crowd  still 
there;  I  learned  the  circumstances;  I  know  all  about  it;  it  is  the  citi- 
zen who  was  in  the  wrong,  aud  who,  by  a  faithful  police,  would  have 
boon  arrested."  , 

Javert  went  on  :  * 

"  Tliis  wretch  has  just  insulted  tho  Mayor." 

"That  concern.^  me,"  said  Mr.  Madeleine.  "The  insult  to  me  rests 
with  my.self,  perhaps.     1  can  do  what  1  please  about  it." 


PANTINB.  131 

"  I  beg  the  Major's  pardon.  The  insult  rests  not  with  him,  it  rests 
with  justice." 

"Inspector  Javert,'  replied  Mr.  Madeleine,  the  highest  justice  is  con- 
science.    I  have  heard  this  woman.     I  know  what  I  am  doing." 

"  And  for  my  part,  Mr.  Mayor,  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  seeing." 

"  Then  content  yourself  with  obeying." 

"  I  obey  my  duty.  My  duty  requires  that  this  woman  spend  six 
months  in  prison."    • 

Mr.  Madeleine  answered  mildly  : 

"  Listen  to  this.     She  shall  not  a  day." 
•   At  these  decisive  words,  Javert  had  the  boldness  to  look  the  Mayor 
in  the  eye,  and  said,  but  still  in  a  tone  of  profound  respect : 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  resist  the  Mayor;  it  is  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
but  he  will  deign  to  permit  me  to  observe  that  I  am  within  the  limits  of 
my  own  authority.  I  will  speak,  since  the  Mayor  desires  it,  on  the 
matter  of  the  citizen.  I  was  there.  This  girl  fell  upon  Mr.  IJamata- 
bois,  who  is  an  elector  and  the  owner  of  that  fine  house  with  a  balcony, 
that  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  esplanade,  three  stories  high,  and  all  of 
hewn  stone.  Indeed,  there  are  some  things  in  this  world,  which  must 
be  consi'ored.  However  that  may  be,  Mr.  Mayor,  this  matter  belongs 
to  the  police*of  the  street;  that  concerns  me,  and  I  detain  the  woman 
Fantine."  , 

At  this  Mr.  Madeleine  folded  hia  arms  and  said  in  a  severe  tone 
which  nobody  in  the  city  had  ever  yet  heard : 

"  The  matter  of  which  you  speak  belongs  to  the  municipal  police. 
By  the  terms  of  articles  nine,  elevon,  fifteen,  and  sixty-six  of  the  code 
of  criminal  law,  I  am  the  judge  of  it.  I  order  that  tliis  woman  be  set 
at  liberty." 

Javert  en  leavored  to  make  a  last  attempt. 

"  But  Mr.  Ma^or " 

,  "  I  refer  you  to  the  article  eighty-one  of  the, law  of   December  1.3th, 
I799,  upon  illegal  imprisonment." 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  permit " 

"  Not  another  word." 

"  However " 

"  Retire,"  said  Nr.  Madeleine. 

Javert  received  the  blow,  standing,  in  front,  and  with  open  breast 
like  a  Russian  soldier,  lie  bowed  to  the  ground  before  the  Mayor,  and 
went  out. 

Fantine  stood  by  the  door  and  looked  at  him  with  stupor  as  he 
passed  before  her. 

Meanwhile  she  also  was  the  subject  of  a  strange  revolution.  She 
had  seen  herself  somehow  disputed  about  by  two  opposing  powers. 
She  had  seou  struggling  before  her  very  eyes  two  men  who  held  in 
their  hands  hct^liberty,  her  life,  her  soul,  her  child;  one  of  these  men 
was  drawing  her  to  the  side  of  darkness,  the  other  was  leading  her 
towards  the  light.  In  this  contest,  seen  with  distortion  through  the 
magnifying  power  of  fr%ht,  these  two  men  had  appeared  to  her  like 
two  giants;  one  spoke  as  her  demon,  the  other  as  hor  good  angel.  The 
angel  had  vanquished  the  demon,  and  the  thought  of  it  made  her  shud- 


182  LES   UIsfiRABLES. 

der  from  head  to  foot ;  this  angel,  this  deliverer,  was  preciselj  the  man 
whom  phe  abhorred,  this  Ma^or  whom  ^ho  had  so  long  considered  as 
the  author  of  all  her  woes,  this  Madeleine  !  and  at  the  very  moment 
when  hhc  had  insulted  him  in  a  hideous  fashion,  he  had  8aved  her! 
Had  she  then  been  deceived  'i  Ought  she  then  to  chanpo  her  whole 
heart?  Fhc  did  not  know,  she  trembled.  She  listened  with  dismay, 
she  looked  around  with  alarm,  and  at  each  word  that  Mr.  Madeleine  ut- 
tered, !^he  felt  the  fearful  darkness  of  her  hatred  molt  within  and  flow 
away,  while  there  was  born  in  her  heart  an  indescribable  and  unspeaka- 
ble warmth  of  joy,  of  confidence,  and  of  love. 

WhoQ  Javert  was  gone,  Mr.  Madeleine  turned  towards  her,  and  saiJ* 
to  her,  speaking  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  like  a  man  who  is  struggling 
that  he  may  not  weep  : 

**  I  have  hoard  you.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  you  have  said.  I  be- 
lieve that  it  is  true.  I  did  not  even  know  that  you  had  left  my  work- 
Bhop.  Why  did  you  not  apply  to  me?  But  now:  I  will  pay  your 
debts,  I  will  have  your  child  come  to  you,  or  you  shall  go  to  her.  You 
shall  live  here,  at  Paris,  or  where  you  will.  I  take  charge  of  your 
child  and  you.  You  shall  do  no  more  work,  if  you  do  not  wish  to.  I 
will  give  you  all  the  money  that  you  need.  You  shall  again  become 
honest  in  again  becoming  happy.  More  than  fhat,  listen.  I  declare  to 
you  from  this  moment,  if  all  is  as  you  say,  and  I  do  not  doubt  it,  that 
you  have  never  ceased  to  find  favor  in  the  eyes  of  God.  Oh,  poor 
woman  !" 

This  was  more  than  poor  Fantine  could  bear.  To  hnve  Cosette !  to 
leave  this  infamous  life!  to  live  free,  rich,  happy,  houe.><t,  with  Cosette! 
to  see  suddenly  spring  up  in  the  midst  of  her  mi.sory  all  these  realities 
of  paradise  I  She  looked  as  if  she  were  stupefied  at  the  nian  who  was 
eppnkiiig  to  her,  and  could  only  pour  out  two  or  three  sobs :  "Oh  !  oh  ! 
oh!"  Her  limbs  gave  way,  she  threw  herself  on  her  "knees  before  Mr. 
Madeleine,  and,  before  Ue  could  prevent  it,  he  felt  that  she  had  ceizcU. 
his  hand  and  carried  it  to  her  lips. 

TheQ  she  fainted. 


J  A  V  E  R  T  . 
I. 

THE   BEOIIfNINO    OF    TDE   REST. 


Mr.  Madeleine  had  Fantine.  taken  to  the  Infirmary,  which  wa?in  his 
own  house.  He  confided  her  to  the  sisters,  wh4»  put  her  to  bed.  A  vio- 
lent fever  calne  on,  and  she  passed  a  part  of  the  night  in  delirious  rav- 
ings.    Finally,  she  fell  asleep. 

To'wards  noon  the  following  day,  Fantine  awoke.     She  heard  a  breath- 


FANTINE.  133 

ing  near  her  bed,  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and  saw  Mr.  Madeleine  stand- 
ing gazing  at  something  above  his  head.  His  look  was  full  of  compas- 
sionate and  supplicating  agony.  She  followed  its  direction,  and  sayf  that 
it  was  fixed  upon  a  crucifix  nailed  against  the  wall. 

From  that  moment  Mr.  Madeleine  was  transfigured  in  the  eyes  of 
Fantine :  he  appeared  to  her  clothed  as  one  shrouded  in  light.  He  was 
absorbed  in  a  kind  of  prayer.  She  gazed  at  him  for  a  long  while  with- 
out daring  to  interrupt  him ;  at  last  she  said  timidly  : 

"  What  are  you  doing?" 

Mr.  Madeleine  had  been  in  that  place  for  an  hour  waiting  for  Fantitte 
.  to  awake.     He  took  her  hand,  felt  her  pulse,  and  snd  : 

"How  do  you  feel?"  ^ 

"Very  well.  I  have  slept,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  am  getting  bet- 
ter— this  will  be  nothing." 

Then  he  said,  answering  the  question  she  had  first  asked  him  "as  if 
she  had  just  asked  it :  - 

"I  ^^s  praying  to  the  martyr  who  is  on  high.". 

And  in  his  thought  he  added  :  "  For  the  martyr  who  is  here  bolow." 

Mp.  Madeleine  had  passed  Uie  night  and  morning  in  informing  himself 
about  Fantine.  He  knew  all  now,  he  had  learned,  even  in  all  its  poig- 
yiant  details,  the  history  of  Fantine. 

He  went  on  : 

"You  have  suffered  greatly,  poor  mother.  Oh  !  do  not  lament,  you 
Lave- now  the  portion  of  the  elect.  R  is  in  this  way  that  mortals  be- 
come angel?.  It  is  not  their  fault;  they  do  not  know  how  to^et  about 
it  otherwise.  This  hell  from  which  you  have  come  out  is  the  first  step 
towards  Heaven.     We  must  begin  by  that."  » 

He  sighed  deeply;  but  she  smiled  with  this  sublime  smile  from  which 
two  teeth  were  gone. 

That  same  night,"  Javert  wrote  a  letter.  Next  morning  he  carried 
this  letter  himself  to  tha  Post-ofiice  of  M sur  M — >—.  It  was  di- 
rected to  Paris  and  bore  this  address:  "To  Monsieur  Chabouillet,  Sec- 
retary of  Monsieur  the  Prefect  of  Police." 

As  the  aflFair  of  the  Bureau  of  Police  had  been  noised  about,  the 
Postmistress  and  some  others  who  saw  the  If'tter  before  it  was  sent,  and 
who  recognized  Javert's  handwriting  in  the  address,  thought  he  was 
sending  in  his  resignation.  Mr.  Madeleine  wrote  immediately  to  the 
Thenardiers.  Fantine  owed  them  a  hundred  and  twenty  francs.  He 
sent  them   three  hundred  francs,  telling  them  to  pay  themselves  out  of 

it,  and  bring  the  child  at  once  to  M sur  M ,  where  her  mother, 

who  was  sick,  wanted  her. 

This  astonished  Thenardier. 

"The  Devil!"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "we  won't  let  goof  the  child. 
It  may  be  that  this  lark  will  become  a  milch-cow.  I  guess  some  silly 
fellow  has  been  Binittcn  by  the  mother." 

He  replied  by  a  bill  of  five  hundred  and  some  odd  francs  carefully 
drawn  up.  In  this  bill  figured  two  indisputable  items  for  upwards  of 
three  hundred  funncs,  one  of  a  physician  and  thco'hcrof  an  apothcf^afy 
who  had  attended  and  supplied  Kponino  and  Azcluia  during  two  long 
illnesses.     Cosette,  as  we  have  said,  had  not  been  ill.     This  was  only 


134  LES    MIS^RABLBS. 

a  plight  substitution  oT  names.  Thenardior  wrote  at  the  bottom  of  tbe 
bill:   "  Recriv^d  on  arcount  three  hundred  francs." 

Mr.  Madeleine  immodiately  sent  three  hundred  francs  more,  aad  wrote  : 
"Make  haste  to  bring  Cosette." 

"  The  Devil !"  said  Thenardier,  "  we  won't  let  go  of  the  girl." 

Meanwhile  Fantine  had  not  recovered.  She  still  remained  in  the  in- 
firmary. 

It  was  not  without  some  repugnance,  at  first,  that  the  sisters  received 
and  cared  for  "this  girK"  But  in  a  frw  days  Fantine  had  disarmed 
tliem.  The  motherly  tenderness  within  her,  with  her  soft  and  tnuohing 
words,  moved  them.  One  day  the  sisters  heard  her  .«ay  in  her  delirium  : 
**  I  have  been  a  sinner,  but  when  I  shall  have  niy  child  with  me,  that 
will  mean  that  God  has  pardoned  me.  While  I  was  bad  I  would  not 
have  had  my  Cosette  with  me;  I  could  not  have  borne  her  sad  and  sur- 
prised looks.  It  was  for  her  I  sinned,  and  that  is  why  God  forgives 
me.  I  shall  feel  this  benediction  when*  Cosette  comes.  I  shall  gaze 
upon  her ;  the  sight  of  her  innocence  will  do  me  good.  She  knows  no- 
thing of  it  all.  She  is  an  angel,  you  see,  my  Sisters.  At  her  age  the 
wings  have  not  yet  fallen."  ■ 

Mr.  Madeleine  came  to  see  her  twi'-c  a  day,  and  at  each  visit  phe  asked 
bim :  • 

"Shall  J  sec  my  Cosette  soon  ?" 

He  answered : 

"  IV-rliups  to-morrow.     I  expecl  her  every  moment." 

And  t\^e  mother's  pale  face  would  brighten. 

"Ah!"  she  would  say,  "how  happy  1  shall  be!" 

We  have  just  said  she  did  not  recover:  on  the  contrary,  her  condition 
seemed  to  become  worse  from  week  to  week.  That  handful  of  snow 
applied  to  the  naked  !>kin  between  her  shoulder-b]ades,  had  caused  a 
sudden  check  of  perspiration,  in  consequence  of  which  the  disease, 
which  had  been  forming  for  some  years,  at  l;»st  attacked  her  violently. 
They  were  just  at  that  time  beginning  in  the  diagnosis  and  treatment 
of  luug  diseases,  to  follow  the  fine  theory  of  Laennec.  The  doctor 
Bounde'l  her  lungs  and  shook  his  head. 

Mr.  Madeleine  said  to  him  : 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Has  she  not  a  child  she  is  anxious  to  see?"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  make  haste  to  bring  her." 

Mr.  Madeleine  shuddered. 

Fantine  asked  him  :  "  What  did  the  doctor  say?"     • 

1^1  r.  .Madeleine  tried  to  smile. 

"  He  told  us  to  bring  your  child  at  on:e.  That  will  restore  your 
health." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "he  is  right.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  th(s^ 
Thenardiers  tliat  th^y  keep  my  Cosette  from  me?  Oh!  she  is  (Toming! 
Here  at  last  I  see  happiness  near  me." 

The  Thenardiers,  however,  di<l  not  "let  go  of  the  elrild;"  they  gave 
n  hundred  bad  reasons.  Cosette  was  too  delicate  to  travel  in  the  winter 
time,  nnd  then  there  were  a  number  of  little  petty  debts,  of  which  thty 
were  collecting  the  bills,  &c.  &c. 


FANTINE.  135 

"  I  will  send  somebody  for  Cosette,"  said  Mr.  Madeleine;  "if  rit- 
cessary,  I  wilf  go  myself." 

He  wrote  at  Fantine's  dictation  this  letter,  which  she  signed: 

"  Mr.  Thenardier : 

"  You  will  deliver  Cosette  to  the  bearer, 

**^He  will  settle  all  small  debts. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  salute  you  with  con'^ideration. 

"Fantine." 

In  the  meanwhile  a  serious  matter  intervpncd.  Tn  vain  we  chisel,  as 
best  we  can,  the  mysterious  block  of  which  our  life  is  made;  the  black 
vein  of  destiny  re-appears  continually. 


II. 

now   JEAN    CAN    BECOME    CHAiMP. 

One  morning  Mr.  Madeleine  was  in  his  office  arranging  some  press- 
ing business  of  the  mayoralty,  in  case  he  should  decide  to  go  to  Mont- 
fermeil  himself,  when  he  was  informed  that  Javert,  the  inspector 
of  police,  wished  to  speak  with  him.  On  heiriog  this  name  spoken, 
Mr.  Madeleine  could  not  repress  a  disagreeable  impre.«sion.  Since  the 
aflFuir  of  the  IJureau  of  Police,  Javert  had  more  than  ever  avoided  him, 
and  Mr.  Madeleine  had  not  seen  him  at  all. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  he. 

Javert  entered. 

Mr.  ^ladcloine  remained  seated  near  the  fire,  looking  over  a  bundle  of 
papers  upon  which  he  was  making  notes,  and  which  contained  the  re- 
turns of  the  police  patrol.  lie  did  not  disturb  himself  at  all  for  Ja- 
vert:  he  could  not  but  think  of  poor  FanliKe,  and  it  was  fiUing  that  he 
should  receive  him  vcr}'  coldly. 

Javert  respectfully  saluted  the  Mayor,  who^ad  his  back  towards  him. 
The  Mayor  did  not  look  up,  but  continued  to  make  notes  on  the  papers. 

Javert  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  paused  without  breaking  silence. 

A  physiognomist,  had  he  been  fauiiiiar  with  Javert's  face,  had  ho 
made  a  stuJy  for  years  of  ihi.s  savage  in  the  service *of  civilizatinn,  this 
odd  mixture  of  the  Roman,  Spartan,  monk,  and  corporal,  this  spy,  in- 
capable of  a  lie,  this  virgin  detective — a  physiognomist,  had  he  known 
his  secret  and  inveterate  aversion  for  Mr.  Madeleine,  his  contest  with 
the  Mayor  on  the  subject  of  Fantinc,  and  had  he  seen  Javert  at  that 
moment,  would  have  said:   "What  has  happened  to  him?" 

It  would  have  been  evident  to  any  one  who  knew  this  conscientious, 
straight  forward,  clear,  sincere,  upriglii,  austere,  fierce  man,  that  Javert 
had  suffered  some  great  interior  commotion.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
mind  that  was  not  depicted  on  his  face.  He  was,  like  all  violent  people, 
subject  to  sudden  changes.  Never  had  his  face  been  stranger  or  more 
startling.  On  entering,  he  had  bowed  before  Mr.  Madeleine  with  a  look 
in  which  was  neither  rancor,  anger,  nor  defiance;  he  paused  some  stops 
behind  the  Mayor's  chair,  and  was  now  standing  in  a  soldierly  attitude 
with  the  natural;  cold  rudeness  of  a  man  who  was  never  kind,  but  has 


136  LKS    MISKRABLES. 

^aya  been  patient ;  he  waited  without  speaking  a  word  or  makinp^  a 
motion,  in  pcnuiiic  bumility  and  tranquil  resignation,  until  it  should 
please  the  Mayor  to  turn  towards  Lini,  ^Im,  serious,  hat  in  hand,  and 
cjes  ca?t  down  with  an  expresfijon  between  that  of  a  soldier  before  his 
officer  and  a  prisoner  before  hia  judge.  All  the  feeling  as  well  as  all 
the  remembrances  which  we  should  have  expected  him  to  have,  (^^p- 
peared.  Nothing  was  left  upon  this  face,  simple  and  impenetrable  as 
granite,  except  a  gloomy  sadness.  His  whole  person  expressed  abase- 
ment and  firmness,  an  indescribably  courageous  dejection. 

At  last  the  Mayor  laid  down  his  pen  and  turned  partly  round  : 

<'  Well,  what  is  it?     What  is  the  matter,  Javert?" 

Javert  remained  silent  a  moment  as  ifl  collecting  himself;  then  raised 
liis  voiet  with  a  sad  solemnity  which  did  not,  however,  ozcludc  simpli- 
ciij:  "There  has  been  a  criminal  act  c  ^mmitted,  Mr.  Mayor? 

"What  act?" 

"  An  inferior  agent  of  the  government  has  been  wanting  in  respect  to 
a  magistrate,  in  the  gravest  manner.  I  come,  as  is  my  duly,  to  bring 
the  fact  to  your  knowledge." 

"  Who  is  this  agent?"  asked  Mr.  Madeleine. 

"  I,"  said  Javert. 

"You?" 

"I." 

"And  who  is  the  magistrate  who  has  to  complain  ot  this  agent?" 

"You,  Mr.  :Mayor." 

"  Mr.  .Madeleine  straightened  himself  in  his  chair.  Javert  continued, 
with  serious  looks  and  eyes  still  east  down. 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  I  cotne  to  ask  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  make  charges  and 
procure  my  dismissal  " 

Mr.  Madeleine,  amazed,  opened  his  mouth.     Javert  interrupted  him  : 

"  You  will  say  that  I  might  tender  my  resignation,  but  that  is  not 
enough.  To  resign  is  honorable:  I  have  done  wrong.  I  ought  to  be 
puni:flicil.     I  must  be  dismissed." 

And  after  a  p-use  he  added  : 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  you  wero  severe  to  me  the  other  tiny,  unjustly.  Bo 
justly  (?o  to  day." 

"Ah,  iniUcd!  why?  What  is  all  this  nonsense?  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?  What  is  the  criminal  act  committed  by  you  against  me  ?  What 
have  you  done  to  me  ?  How  have  you  wronged  uje  ?  You  accuse  your- 
self: do  you  wish  to  be  relieved  ?" 

"  Dismissed,"  said  Javert. 

"  J)ismi.-^.'<cd  it  U,  then.  It  is  very  strange.  I  do  not  understand 
you." 

"  You  will  understand,  Mr.  Mayor,"  Javert  sighed  deeply,  and  con- 
tinued sadly  and  coldly  v 

"Mr.  }»}i\yor,  six  weeks  ago,  after  that  scene  about  that  girl,  I  was 
enraged  and  T  denounced  you."  , 

"  Denounced  me  ?" 

"To  tho  Prefecture  of  Tolice  at  Paris." 

Mr.  Madeleine,  who  did  not  laugh  much  oftener  than  Javcrt,'bcgan 
to  laugli : 

"As  a  Mayor  having  encroached  upon  the  police?" 


FANTINB.  137 

"As  a  former  convict?" 

The  Mayor  became  livid. 

Javert,  who  had  uot  raised  his  eyes,  continued  : 

"  I  believed  it.  For  a  long  while  I  had  had  suspicions.  A  resem- 
blance, information  you  obtained  at  Faverollcs,  your  immense  strength; 
the  affair  of  old  Fauchclevent;  your  skill  as  a  marksman;  your  leg 
which  drags  a  little— and  in  fact  I  don't  know  what  other  stupidities; 
but  at  last  I  took  you  for  a  man  named  Jean  Valjean." 

"  Named  what  ?     How  did  you  call  that  name  V 

"Jean  Valjean.  He  was  a  convict  I  saw  twenty  years  ago,  when  I 
was  adjutant  of  tlie  galley  guard  nt  Toulon.  After  leaving  the  galleys 
this  .Valjean,  it  appears,  robbed  a  Bishop's  palace,  then  he  committed 
another  ?;obbery  with  weapons  in  his  hands,  in  a  highway,  on  a  little 
Savoyard.  For  eight  years  his  whereabouts  have  boQ,n  unknown,  and 
search  has  been  made  for  him.  -  I  fancied — in  short,  I  have  done  this 
thing.     Anger  determined  me,  and  I  denounced  you  to  the  Prefect." 

^Ir.  Madeleine,  who  had  taken  up  the  file  of  papers  again,  a  favv  mo- 
ments  before,  said  with  a  tone  of  perfect  indifference:  "And  what  ao- 
swer  did  you  get/"   * 

"  That  I  was  crazy." 

"Well!" 

"  Well ;  they  were  right." 

"  It  is  fortunate  that  you  think  so  !" 

"  It  must  bo  so,  for  the  real  Jean  Valjean  has  been  found." 

The  paper  that  Mr.  Madeleine  held  fell  from  his  hand ;  he  raised  his 
head,  looked  steadily  at  Javert,  and  said  in  an  inexpressible  tone : 

"Ah!" 

Javert  continued  : 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is,  Mr.  Mayor.  There  was,  it  appears,  in  tho 
country,  near  Ailly-le-Haut  Clocher,  a  simple  sort  of  a  fellow  who  was 
called  Father  Champmathieu.  He  was  very  poor.  Nobody  piid  any 
attention  to  him.  8uch  folks  live,  one  hardly  knows  how.  Finally, 
this  last  fall,  Father  Champmathieu  was  arrested  for  stealing  cider  ap- 
ples from  ,  but  this  is  of  no  consequence.     There  was  a  theft,  a 

wall  scaled,  branches  of  trees  broken.  Our  Champmathieu  was  ar- 
rested; he  had  even  then  a  branch  of  an  apple-tree  in  his  hand.  The 
rogue  was  caged.  So  far,  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  penitentiary  mat- 
ter. But  here  comes  in  the  hand  of  Providence.  The  jail  being  in  bad 
condition,  the  police  justice  thought  it  best  to  take  him  to  Arras,  where 
the  prison  of  the  department  is.  In  this  prison  of  Arras  there  w«s  a 
former  convict  named  Brevet,  who  is  there  for  some  trifle,  and  who,  for 
his  good  conduct,  has  been  made  turnkey.  No  sooner  was  Champma- 
thieu sent  down,  than  Brevet  cried  out:  'Ha,  ha  I  I  know  that  man. 
He  is  s.fa,jot:  "*  • 

"'Look  up  here,  my  good  man.  You  are  Jean  Valjean.'  'Jean 
Valjean,  who  is  Jean  Valjean  V  Champmathieu  plays  off  the  »ston- 
ishcd.  *  Don't  pretend  ignorance,'  said  Brevet.  *  You  are  Jean  Valjean  j 
you  were  in  the  galleys  at  Toulon.  It  is  twenty  y««r9  ago.  We  were 
there  together.'    Champmathieu  denied  it  all.     Faiih  !  you  undcrstiDd^ 

*  Former  conviot 

10         / 


138  L£8   UIS^RABLBS. 

they  fathomed  it.     The  case  was  worked  up  aod  this  was  what  they 
found.     Thif:  Chanipmathieu  thirty  years  ago  was  a  pruner  in  divers 

f)laces,  particularly   in   Favcrollcs.     There   we  lose  trace  of   him.     A 
ong  time  afterwards  wc  find  hitn  at  Auvergne ;  then  at  Paris,  whore  he 
is  said  to  have  becu  a  wheelwright  and  to  have  had  a  daughter — a  wash- 
erwoman, but  that  is  not  proven,  and  finally  in  this  part  of  the  country. 
Now  before  going  to  the  galleys  for  burglary;  what  was  Jeau  Valjean  ? 
A  pruner.     Where?     At  Faverollcs.     Another  fact.     This  Yaljean's 
baptismal  name  was  Jcpn ;  his  mother's  family  name,  Mathieu.     No- 
thing could  be  more  natural,  on  leaving  the  galle}P,  than   to  take  his 
mother's  name  to  disguise  himself;  then  he  would  be  called  Jean  Ma- 
thieu.    lie  goes  to  Auvergne,  the  pronunciation  of  that  region  would 
make  Chan  of  J<(in — they  would  call  him  Chan   Mathieu.     Our  man 
adopts  it,  and  now  you  have  him  transformed  into  Champmathieu.     You 
follow  me,  do  you  not  ?     Search  has  been  made  at   FaveroUes ;   the 
family  of  Jean  Valjean  are  no  longer  there.     Nobody  .knows  whero 
they  are.     You  know  in  such  classes  these  disappearances  of  fatuilics 
often  occur.     You  search,  but  can  find  nothing.     .Such  people,  when 
they  are  not  mud,  are  dust.     And  then  as  the  commencement  of  this 
Btory  dates  back  thirty  years,  there  is  nobody  now  at  Faverollcs  who 
knew  Jean  Valjean.     \\\xt  search  has  been  made  at  Toulnn.     Besides 
Brevet  there  are  only  two  convicts  who  have  seen  Jean  Valjean.     They 
are  convicts  for    life;    their  names   arc    Cochepaille   and   Chenildieu 
These  men  were  brought  from  the  galleys  and  confronted  with  the  pre- 
tended Champmathieu.     They  did  not  hesitate.     To  them  as  well  us  to 
Brevet  it  was  Jean  Valjean.     Same  age;   fifty-four  years  old;  same 
height;  same  appearance,  in  fact  the  same  man  ;  it  i.s  he.     At  this  time 
it  was  that  I  sent  my  denunciation  to  the  Prfffcture  at  Paris.     They 
replied  that  I  was  out  of  my  mind,  and  that  Jean  Valjean  was  at  Arras 
in  the  hands  of  ju.«ticc.     You  may  imagine  how  that  astonished  m«;   I 
who  believed  that  I  had   here  the  same  Jean  Valjean.     I  wrote  to  tho 
Justice ;  he  pent  for  me  and  brought  Champmathieu  before  mo." 
"Well,"  interrupted  Mr.  Madeleine. 
Javert  replied,  with  an  incorruptible  and  sad  face  : 
"Mr.  Major,  truth  is  truth.     I   am  sorry  for  it,  but  that  man  ia 
Jean  Valjean.     I  recognized  him  also." 
Mr.  Madeleine  said  in  a  very  low  voice  : 
"Are  you  sure  ?" 

Javert  began  to  laugh  with  tho  suppressed  laugh  which  indicates  pro- 
found conviction. 
"Fm,  sure!" 

lie  remained  a  moment  in  thought,  mechanically  taking  up  pinches 
of  the  powdered  wood  used  to  dry  ink,  from  tho  box  on  the  table,  and 
then  added  : 

"And  now  that  I  see  the  real  Jean  Valjean,  I  do  not  understand  how 
I  ever  could  have  beliered  anything  else.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Mayor." 

In  ifltering  these  serions  and  supplicating  words  to  him,  who  six 
•weeks  before  had  humiliated  him  before  the  entire  guard,  and  had 
said  "Retire!"     Javert,  this  haughty  mau,  was  uncoQciously  full  of 


PANTINB.  139 

simplicity  and  dignity.     Mr.  Madeleine  answered  his  request,  by  this 
abrupt  question  : 

"And  what  did  the  man  eay  ? "  '  ' 

"  Oh,  bless  me  !  Mr.  Mayor,  the  affair  is  a  bad  one.  If  it  is  Jean 
Valjean,  it  is  a  second  offence.  To  climb  a  wall,  break  a  branch,  and 
take  apples,  for  a  child  is  only  a  trespass ;  for  a  man  it  is  a  misdemea- 
nor; for  a  convict  it  is  a  crime.  Scaling  a  wall  and  theft  includes  eve- 
rythint]^.  It  is  not  a  case  for  a  police  court,  but  for  the  Assizes.  It  is 
not  a  few  days'  imprisonment,  but  the  galleys  for  life.  And  then  there 
is  the  affair  of  the  little  Savoyard,  who  I  hope  will  be  found.  The 
devil!  There  is  something  to  struggle  against,  is  there  not?  There 
would  be  for  anybody  but  Jean  Valjean.  But  Jean  Valjean  is  a  sly 
fellow.  And  that  is  just  where  I  recognize  him.  Anybody  else  would 
know  that  he  was  in  a  hot  place,  and  would  rave  and  cry  out,  as  the  tea- 
kettle sings  on  the  fire ;  he  would  say  that  he  was  not  Jean  Valjean,  et 
cetera.  But  this  man  pretends  not  to  understand,  he  says :  *  I  am 
Champmathieu  :  I  have  no  more  to  say.'  lie  puts  on  an  appearance 
of  astonishment;  he  plays  the  brute.  Oh,  the  rascal  is  cunning  I  But 
it  is  all  the  same,  there  is  the  evidence.  Four  persoos  have  recognized 
him,  and  the  old  villain  will  be  condemned.  It, has  been  taken  to  the 
Assizes  at  Arras.     I  am  going  to  testify.     I  haf  e  been  summoned." 

Mr.  Madeleine  had  turned  again  to  his  desk,  and  was  quietly  looking 
over  his  papers,  reading  and  writing  alternately,  like  a  man  pressed 
with  business.     He  turned  again  towards  Javert : 

"That  will  do,  Javert.  Indeed  all  these  details  interest  me  very 
little.  We  are  wasting  time,  and  we  hivc  urgent  business,  Javert;  go 
at  once  to  the  house  of  the  good  woman  Buseaupied,  who  sells  herbs  at 
the  corner  of  Rue  ^aint  Saulve;  tell  her  to  make  her  com- 
plaint against  the  carman  Pierre  Chesnelong.  He  is  a  brutal  fellow,  he 
almost  crushed  this  woman  and  her  child.  He  must  he  punished. 
Then  you  will  go  to  Mr.  Charcellay,  Rue  Montrc-de-Champigny.  He 
complains  that  the  gutter  of  the  next  house  when  it  rains,  throws  water 
upon  his  house,  and  is  undermining  the  foundation.  Then  you  will 
inquire  into  the  offences  that  have  been  reported  to  me,  at  the  widow 
Doris's,  Rue  Guibourg,  and  Madame  Renee  le  Bosse's,  Rue  du  Garraud 
Blanc,  and  make  out  reports.  But  I  am  giving  you  too  much  to  do. 
Did  you  not  tell  me  you  were  going  to  Arras  in  eight  or  tea  daya  on 
this  matter  ?  " 

"  Sooner  than  that,  Mr.  Mayor." 

"What  day  then  ?" 

"  I  thinkl  told  Monsieur  that  the  case  would  be  tried  to-morrow,  and 
that  I  should  Icavc  by  the  diligence  to-night." 

Mr.  Madeleine  made  an  imperceptible  motion. 

"  And  how  long  will  the  matter  last  ?" 

"  One  <lay  at  longest.  Sentence  will  be  pronounced  at  latest  to- 
morrow evening.  But  I  shall  not  wait  for  the  sentence,  which  is  c«r- 
tain  ;  as  soon  as  my  testimony  is  given  I  shall  return  here." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Madeleine. 

And  he  dismissed  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

Javert  did  not  go. 


140  LES   MISERABLES. 

"Your  pardon,  eir,"  said  he. 

''What  more  is  there?"  asked  Mr.  Madeleine. 

"  Mr.  Mn3'or,  there  is  one  thing  more  to  which  I  desire  to  call  your 
attention." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  that  I  ought  to  be  dismissed." 

Mr.  Madeleine  arose. 

"  Javcrt,  you  are  a  man  of  honor  and  I  esteem  you.  You  exagge- 
rate your  fault.  Besides,  this  is  an  offence  which  concerns  me.  You 
are  worthy  of  promotion  rather  than  disgrace.  I  desire  you  to  keep 
your  place." 

Javcrt  looked  at  Mr.  Madeleine  with  his  calm  eyes,  in  whose  depths 
it  seemed  tlv»t  one  beheld  his  conscience,  unenlightened,  but  stem  und 
pure,  and  said  in  a  tranquil  voice : 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  I  cannot  agree  to  that." 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Mr.  Madeleine,  "  that  this  matter  concerns  me." 

But  Javert,  with  his  one  idea,  continued  : 

"As  to  exaggerating,  I  do  not  exaggerate.  This  is  the  way  I  reason. 
I  have  unjustly  suspected  you.  That  is  nothing.  It  is  our  province 
to  suspect,  although  it  may  be  an  abu.se  of  our  right  to  suspect  our  su- 
periors. But  without  pxoofs  and  iu  a  lit  of  auger,  with  revenge  as  my 
aim,  I  denounced  y^n  as  a  convict — you,  a  re.spcctable  man,  a  mayor, 
and  a  magistrate.  This  is  a  serious  matter,  very  serious.  I  have  com- 
mitted an  offence  against  authority  in  your  person,  I  who  am  the 
agent  of  authority.  If  one  of  my  subordinates  had  done  what  1  have, 
I  would  have  pronounced  him  unworthy  of  the  service,  and  sent  him 
away.  Well,  listen  a  moment,  Mr.  Mayor;  I  have  often  been  severe  in 
my  life  towards  others.  It  was  just.  I  did  right.  Now  if  I  were 
not  severe  towards  myself,  all  I  have  justly  done  would  become  injus- 
tice. Should  I  spare  myself  more  than  others  ?  No.  What !  if  I 
should  be  prompt  only  to  punish  others  and  not  myself,  I  should  be  a 
Vretch  indeed!  They  who  say:  'That  blackguard,  Javcrt,'  would 
fee  right.  Mr.  IMayor,  I  do  not  wi.sh  you  to  treat  mc  with  kindness. 
Your  kindncs:^,  when  it  was  for  othere,  enraged  me  ;  I  do  not  wish  it 
for  myself.  That  kindness  which  consists  in  defending  a  woman  of  the 
town  against  a  citizen,  a  polico  agent  against  the  mayor,  the  inferior 
against  the  superior,  that  is  what  I  call  ill-judged  kindness.  Such  kind- 
ness disorganizes  society.  Good  God,  it  is  easy  to  be  kind;  the  dif- 
ficulty is  to  bo  just.  Had  jou  been  what  I  thought,  I  should  not 
have  been  kind  to  you;  not  1.  You  would  have  seen,  Mr.  Mayor.  I 
ought  to  treat  myself  as  I  should  tre:U  anybody  else.  When  I  put  down 
malefactors,  when  I  rigorously  brought  up  offenders,  I  often  said  to 
myself:  'You,  if  you  ever  trip;  if  ever  I  catch  you  doing  wrong, 
lookout!'  1  have  tripped,  I  have  caught  myself  doing  wrong.  So 
much  the  worse  !  I  must  be  sent  away,  broken,  dismissed,  that  is  right. 
I  Uave  hands:  I  can  till  the  ground  :  It  is  all  the  same  to  me.  Mr. 
Mayor,  the  good  of  the  service  demands  an  example.  I  simply  ask  the 
dismissal  of  Inspector  Javert." 

All  this  was  said  in  a  tone  of  proud  humility,  a  desperate  and  re!K>- 
late  tone,  which  gave  an  indescribably  whimsical  grandeur  to  this  oddlj 
konest  man. 


FANTINE.  141 

"  We  will  see,"  said  Mr.  Madoleiac. 

And  he  held  out  is  hand  to  him.     . 

Javert  started  back,  and  said  fiercely  : 

"Pardon,  Mr.  Mayor,  that  should  not  be.  A  mayor  does  not  giv« 
his  hand  to  a  spy." 

He  added  between  his  teeth  : 

"  Spy,  yes;  from  the  moment  I  abused  the  power  of  my  position,  I 
have  been  nothing  better  than  a  spy  !  " 

Then  he  bowed  profoundly  and  went  towards  the  door. 

There  he  turned  arouni  :  his  eyes  yet  d(  wncast : 

♦*  Mr.  Mayor,  I  will  continue  in  the  service  until  I  am  relieved." 

He  went  out.  Mr,  Madeleine  sat  musing,  listening  to  his  firm  and 
resolute  step  as  it  died  away  along  the  corridor. 


I 


THE  CHAMPMATHIEU  AFFAIR. 

I. 

SISTER   SIMPLIGE. 

The  events  which  follow  were  never  all  known  at  M sur  M— — . 

But  the  few  which  did  leak  outlhavo  left  such  memories  in  that  city, 
that  U,  would  be  a  serious  omission  in  this  book  if  we  did  not  relat« 
them  in  their  minutest  details. 

Among  these  details,  th(?  reader  will  meet  with  two  or  three  improba- 
ble circumstances,  which  we  preserve  from  respect  for  the  truth. 

In  the  afternoon  following  the  visit  of  Javert,  M.  Madeleine  went  to 
see  Fantine  as  usual. 

Before  going  to  Fantrne's  room,  he  sent  for  Sister  Simplice." 

Thc!  two  nuns  who  attended  the  infirmary,  Lazarist.s,  as  all  these  sis- 
ters of  charity  are,  were  called  Sister  PerpC'tue  and  Sister  Simplice. 

Sister  Perp<5tue  was  an  ordinary  village  girl,  sunmiarily  become  a  Sister 
of  Charity,  who  entered  the  service  of  God  as  she  would  have  entered 
service  anywhere.     She  was  a  nun  as  olhers  are  cooks. 

Sister  Simplice  was  white  with  a  waxen  clearness.  In  comparison 
-with  Sister  Perpetue,  she  was  a  sacramental  taper  by  the  side  of  a  tallow 
candle.  St.  Vincent  dp  Paul  has  divinely  drawn  the  figure  of  a  Sister 
of  Charity  in  these  admirable  words,  ift  which  he  unites  «o  much  liberty 
with  so  much  servitude  :  "  Her  only  convent  shall  be  the  house  of  sick- 
ness ;  her  only  cell  a  hired  lodging ;  her  chapel  the  parish  church  ;  her 
cloister  the  streets  of  the  city,  or  the  wards  of  the  hospital ;  her  only 
wall  obedience  ;  her  grate  the  fear  of  God;  her  veil  modesty."  This 
ideal  was  made  alive  in  Sister  Simplice.     No  one  could  have  told  Sister 


142  LES   MIS^RABLBS. 

Sitnplice's  age ;  she  had  never  been  young,  an4  Rccmed  if  she  never 
should  be  old.  She  was  a  person — we  dare  not  say  a  woman — gentlA, 
austore,  companionable,  cold,  and  who  had  never  told  a  lie.  She  was  so 
gentle  that  she  appeared  fragile;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  was  more 
endurio'^  than  granite.  She  touched  the  unfortunate  with  charming 
fingers,  delicate  aud  pure.  There  wa.",  ?o  to  say,  silence  in  her  speech  ; 
the  said  just  what  was  necessary,  and  she  had  a  tone  of  voice  which 
would  at  the  same  time  have  cJified  a  confessional,  and  enchanted  a 
drawinp-room.  This  delicacy  accommodated  itself  to  the  serge  dress, 
findiriir  in  its  harsh  touch  a  continual  reminder  of  Heaven  and  of  God. 
Let  us  dwell  upon  one  circumstance.  Never  to  have  lied,  never  to  have 
spoken,  for  any  purpose  whatever,  even  careles-sly,  a  single  word  which 
was  not  the  trush,  tbe  sauced  truth,  was  the  distinctive  trait  of  Sister 
Simplice ;  it  was  the  marK  of  her  virtue.  She  was  almost  cplebrated 
in  the  congregation  for  this  imperturbable  veracity.  There  was  not  a 
spider's  web,  not  a  speck  of  dust  upon  the  plass  of  that  conscience. 
"NVhcn  she  took  the  vows  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  she  bad  taken  the 
name  of  Simplice  by  especial  choice.  Simplico  of  Sicily,  it  is  well 
known,  is  that  saint  who  preferred  to  have  both  her  breasts  torn  out 
rather  than  answer,  having  been  bot-n  at  Syracuse,  that  she  was  born  at 
Segesta,  a  lie  which  would  have  saved  her.  This  patron  saint  was  fitting 
for  this  soul. 

.  Sister  Simplice,  on  entering  the  order,  had  two  faults  of  which  she 
corrected  herself  gradually:  she  had  had  a  taste  fuf  delicacies,  and  loved 
to  receive  lett<,'rs.  Now  she  read  nothing  but  a  prayer-book  in  large 
type  and  in  Latin.  She  did  not  understand  Latin,  but  she  understood 
the  book. 

This  pious  woman  had  conceived  an  affc^ction  fof  Fantine,  perceiving 
in  her  probably  some  latent  virtue,  und  had  devoted  herself  almost  ex- 
clusively to  her  care.  * 

Mr.  Madeleine  took  Sister  Simplice  aside  and  recommended  Fantine 
to  her  with  a  singular  emphasis,  which  the  Sister  remembered  at  a  later 
day. 

On  leaving  the  Sister,  he  approached  Fantine. 

Fantine  awaited  each  day  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Madeleine  as  one 

awaits  a  ray  of  warmth  and  of  joy      She  would  say  to  the  sisters:  "1 

live  only  when  the  Mayor  is  here." 

That  day  slu;  had  more  fever.     As  soon  as   abo  saw  Mr.  Madeleine, 

she  asked  him  :  • 

"  Cosettc  ?" 

lie  answered,  with  a  smile  : 
"  Very  soon." 
Mr.  Madeleine,  while  with  Fantinr,  seemoil  as  usual.     Only  he  stayed 

an  hour  instead  of  half  an  hour,   to   tiie  great  satisfaq^tion  of  Fantine. 

lie  made  a  thousand  charges  to  eve.ybody  that  the  sick   woman  might 

wi^nt  for  nothing.     It  was  notice*!  that  at  one  moment  his  countenance 

became  very  sombre.     But  this  was  explained  whon  it  was  known  that 

the  doctor  had,  bending  close  to  his  ear,  said  to  him  :  "  She  is  sinking  fast." 
Then  ho  returned  to  the  Mayor's  Oflice,  and   the   office  boy  saw  him 

examine  attentively  a  road-map  of  France  which  hung  in  his  room,    lie 

made  if  few  figures  in  pencil  upon  a  piece  of  paper. 


FANTINB.  143 

II. 

SHREWDNESS   OP   MASTER    SCAUFFLAIRE. 

From  the  Mayor's  Offite,  be  went  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  to  a 
Fleming's,  -Master  Scaufflaer,  Frenchified  into  Scaufflaire,  •who  kept 
horses  to  let  and  "  chaises  if  desired." 

IncCrder  to  go  to  Scaufilaire's,  the  nearest  way  was  by  a  rarely  fre- 
quented streot,  on  which  was  the  parsonage  of  the  parish,  in  which  Mr. 
Madeleint^Jivcd.  The  curate  was,  it  was  said,  a  worthy  and  respectable 
man,  and  a  good  adviser.  At  the  moment  when  Mr.  Madeleine  ar- 
rived in  front  of  the  parsonage,  there  was  but  one  person  passing  in  tho 
street,  and  he  remarked  this :  the  Mayor,  after  passing  by  the  curate 
house,  stopped,  stood  still  a  moment,  then  turned  back  and  retraced  his 
steps  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  parsonage,  which  was  a  large  door,  with 
an  iron  knocker.  He  seized  the  knocker  quickly  and  raised  it ;  then 
he  stopped  anew,  stood  a  short  time  as  if  in  thought,  and  after  a  few 
seconds,  instead  of  letting  the  knocker  full  smartly,  he  replaced  it  gently 
and  resumed  his  walk  with  a  sort  of '  haste  that  he  had  not  showa 
before. 

]Mr.  Madeleine  found  Master  Scaufflaire  at  home  busy  repairing  a 
harness. 

**  Master  Scaufflaire,"  he  asked,  "  have  you  a  good  horse  ?" 

"Mr.  Mayor,"  said  the  Fleming,  "all  my  horses  are  good.  What 
do  you  understand  by  a  good  horse  ?" 

"  I  understand  a  horse  that  can  go  twenty  leagues  in  a  day." 

"The  devil !"  said  the  Fleming,  "  twenty  lea<:ues  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Before  a  chaise  ?" 

"  Yes."  _  .        .       .     • 

"  And  how  long  will  he  rest  after  the  journey  ?  " 

"  He  must  be  able  to  start  again  the  next  day  in  case  of  need." 

"  To  do  the  same  thing  again  ?  " 

"Yes,"     .  ■  .    . 

"The  devil  I  and  it  is  twenty  leagues?" 

Mr.  Madeleine  drew  from  his  pocket  the  paper  on  which  he  had  pen- 
cilled the  figures.  lie  showed  them  to  the  Fleming.  They  were  the 
figures,  5,  6,  8  J.  >        , 

"You  see,"  said  he.  "Total,  nineteen  and  a  half,  that  is  to  cay, 
twenty  leagues." 

"Mr.  Mayor,"  resumed  the  Fleming,  "I  have  just  what  you  want. 
My  little  white  horse,  you  must  have  seen  him  sometimes  passing;  he 
is  a  little  beast  from  Bas-Boulonnais.  He  is  full  of  fire.  They  tried 
at  first  to  make  a  saddle  horse  of  him.  Bah  I  he  kicked,  he  threw  every- 
body off.  *Thoy  thought  he  was  vicious,  they  didb't  know  what  to  do. 
I  bought  hirh.  I  put  him  before  a  chaise;  Sir,  that  is  what  he 
wanted ;  he  j^  as  gentle  as  a  girl,  he  goes  like  the  wind.  But,  how- 
ever, it  won't  do  to  get  on  his  back.  It's  not  his  idea  to  be  a  saddle 
horse.  Everybody  has  his  peculiar  ambition.  To  draw,  but  not  to 
carry  :    he  must  have  said  that  to  himself." 

"  And  he  will  make  the  trip  ?  " 


144  LES   MIS^RABLES. 

"  Your  twenty  leagues,  all  the  way  at  a  full  trot,  and  in  less  than 
eight  bourn.     I'lit  there  arc  some  conditions."  « 

"  Name  them." 

•'  Firhl,  }uu  uiust  let  him  brcnhte  nn  hour  when  you  are  half  way  ;  ho 
will  eat,  and  somebody  must  be  by  while  he  eats  to  prevent  the  favera 
boy  from  .'^toaliug  his  oats;  for  I  have  noticed  that  at  taverns,  oats  are 
oftencr  drunk  by  the  stable  boys  than  eaten  by  the  horses."         % 

"Somebody  shall  be  there." 

"  Srcoudly— is  the  chaise  for  the  Mayor  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Tlie  Mayor  knows  bow  to  drive?" 

'^  Yes," 

'<  Well,  the  Mayor  will  travel  alone  and  without  baggage,  so  as  not 
to  oveiload  the  horse." 

"  Agreed." 

"  Hut  the  IMayor,  having  no  one  with  him,  will  be  obliged  to  take  the 
trouble  of  seeing  to  the  oats  himself" 

"So  said." 

"  I  must  have  thirty  francs  a  day,  the  days  he  rests  included.  Not  a 
penny  less,  and  the  fodder  of  the  beast  at  the  expense  of  the 
Mayor." 

Mr  Madeleine  took  threo  Napoleons  f^om  his  purse  and  laid  them  on 
(he  table. 

"  Tliere  is  two  days  in  advance." 

"  Fourthly,  for  such  a  trip,  a  chai.se  would  be  too  heavy  ;  that  would 
tire  the  horse.  The  ^layor  must  consent  to  travel  in  a  little  tilbury 
that  I  have." 

"  I  consent  to  that." 

"  It  is  light,  but  it  i^  open." 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me." 

"  Has  the  Mayor  reflected  that  it  is  winter?" 

Mr.  Madeleine  did  not  answer;  the  Fleming  went  on  : 

"Tlrat  it  is  very  cold?" 

Mr.  Madeleine  kept  sifence. 

Master  Seaufflaire  continued: 

"That  it  may  rain?"' 

^Ir.  .^ladeleinc  raised  his  head  and  said: 

"The  hijrso  and  the  tilbury  will  be  before  my  door  to-morrow  at  half- 
past  fnur  in  the  murning." 

"  That  is  understood,  .Mr.  Mayor,"  answered  SenuHlaire,  then  scratch- 
ing a  stain  on  the  top  of  the  table  with  his  thumb  nail,  he  resumed 
with  that  careless  air  that  Flemings  so  well  know  how  to  associate  with 
their  shrewdness  : 

"  Why,  I  have  jifst  thought  of  it !  The  mayor  has  not  told  me  where 
he  is  going.     ^^  here  is  the  Mayor  going  ?" 

lie  had  thought  of  nothing  else  since  the  beginning  of  the  con- 
versation, but  without  knowing  why,  he  had  not  dared  to  ask  the 
question. 

"  Has  your  horse  good  fore  legs?"  said  Mr.  Madeleine. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Mayor.  You  will  hold  him  up  a  little  going  down  hill. 
Ib  there  much  downhill  between  here  and  whero  you  are  going  ? " 


FANTINB.  145 

"  Don't  forget  to  be  at  my  door  precisely  at  half-past  four  in  the 
morning,"  answered  Mr.  Madeleine,  and  he  went  out. 

The  P^leming  was  left  "dumb-founded,"  aa  he  said  himself  soime 
time  afterwards.  ' 

The  Mayor  had  been  gone  two  or  three  minutes,  when  the  door  again 
opened;  it  was  the  Mayor. 

He  had  the  same  impassive  and  absent-minded  air  as  ever. 

"Mr.  ScaufHaire,"  said  he,  " at  what  sura  do  you  vMue  the  horse 
and  the  tilbury  that  you  furnish  nie?" 

"  Does  the  Mayor  wish  to  buy  them  ?" 

"  No,  but  at  all  events  I  wish  to  guarantee  them  to  you.  On  my  re- 
turn you  can  give  me  back  the  amount.  At  how  much  do  you  value 
horse  and  chaise  ?" 

"Five  hundred  francs,  Mr.  Mayor  !"  v 

"  Here  it  is  " 

Mr.  Madeleine  placed  a  bank  note  on  the  table,  then  went  out,  and 
this  time  did  not  return. 

Master  Scaufflaire  regretted  terribly  that  he  had  not  said  a  thousand* 
francs.     In  fact,  the  horse  and  tilbury,  in  the  lump,  were  worth  a  hun- 
dred crowns. 

The  Fleming  called  his  wife,  ayd  related  the  affair  to  her.  Where 
the  douce  could  the  Mayor  be  going  ?  They  talked  it  over.  "  He  ia 
going  to  Paris,"  said  the  wife.  "I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  husband. 
Mr.  Madeleine  had  forgot  the  paper  on  which  he  had  marked  the  figures, 
and  left  it  on  the  mantel.  The  Fleming  seized  it  and  studied  it.  Five, 
six,  eight  and  a  half?  this  must  mean  the  relays  of  the  post.  He  turned 
to  his  wife  :  "  I  have  found  it  out."  "How?"  "It  is  five  leagues 
from  here  to  Hesdin,  six  from  Ilesdin  to  Saint  Pol,  eight  and  a  half 
from  Saint  Pol  to  Arras.     He  is  g'^iug  to  Arras." 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Madeleine  had  reached  home.  To  return  from  Mas- 
ter Scaufilaire's  he  had  taken  a  longer  road,  as  if  the  door  of  the  par- 
sonage were  a  temptation  to  him,  and  he  wished  to  avoid  it.  He  went 
up  to  his  room,  and  shut  himself  in,  which  was  nothing  remarkable,  for 
he  usually  went  to  bed  early.  However,  the  janitress  of  the  factory, 
who  was  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Madeleine's  only  servant,  observed  that 
his  light  was  out  at  half  past  eight,- and  she  mentioned  it  to  the  cashier 
who  came  in,  adding: 

"  Is  the  Mayor  sick  ?  I  thought  that  his  manner  was  a  little 
singular." 

The  cashier  occupied  a  room  situated  exactly  beneath  Mr.  Madeleine's. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  the  portress's  words,  went  to  bed,  and  went  to 
sleep.  Towards  midnight  he  suddenly  awoke ;  he  had  heard,  in  his 
sleep,  a  noise  overhead.  He  listened.  It  was  a  step  that  went  and 
came,  as  if  some  one  were  walking  in  the  room  above.  He  listened 
more  attentively!  and  recognised  Mr.  Madeleine's  step.  That  appeared 
strange  to  hira^  ordinarily  no  noise  was  made  in  Mr.  J^Iadclcine's  roou  . 
before  his  hour  of  rising.  A  moment  afterwards,  the  cashier  beard 
something  tbat  sounded  like  the  opening  and  the  shutting  of  a  ward- 
robe, thin  a  piece  of  furniture  was  moved,  there  was  another  silence, 
and  the  step  began  again.  The  cashier  rose  up  in  bed,  threw  off  his 
drowsiness,  looked  out,  and  through  his  window-panes,  saw  upon  an 


146  LBS  IflS^RABLES. 

opposite  wall  the  niddy  reflection  of  «  lighted  window.  From  the  di- 
rection of  the  rays,  it  could  onlj  be  the  window  of  Mr.  Madeleine's 
chatnlwr.  The  reflection  trembled  as  it  it  came  rather  from  a  bri^zht 
Ore  iban  from  a  lifibt.  The  shadow  of  the  8ash  could  not  be  seen,  which 
indicated  that  the  window  was  wide  open.  Cold  as  it  was,  this  open 
window  was  surprising.  The  casliier  foil  asleep  again.  An  hour  or  two 
afterwards  he  awoke  again.  The  same  step,  slow,  and  regular,  was 
coming  and  going  constantly  oTcr  his  head. 

The  reflection  continued  vinible  upon  the  wall,  but  it  was  now  pale 
and  steady  like  the  light  from  a  lamp  or  a  candle.  The  window  was 
Btill  open. 

Let  us  sec  what  was  passing  in  Mr.  Madeleine's  room. 


III. 

>  A   TEMPEST   IN   A  URAIN. 

The  reader  has  doubtUss  dirined  that  Mr.  Madeleine  is  none  other 
than  Jean  Valjean. 

We  have  a]rca<ly  looked  into  tkc  dopths  of  that  conscience;  the  time 
has  c<:)me  to  look  into  thorn  again.  We  do  so  not  without  emotion,  nor 
without  trembling.  There  exists  nothinj:  more  terrific  than  this  kind  of 
contemplation.  The  mind's  eye  can  nowhere  find  anything  more  daz- 
zling nor  more  dark  than  in  man;  it  ein  fix  itself  upon  nothing  which 
is  more  awful,  more  complex,  more  mysterious,  or  more  infinite.  There 
is  one  spectacle  grander  than  the  sea,  that  is  the  sky ;  there  is  one  spec- 
tacle grander  than  the  sky,  that  is  the  interior  of  the  soul. 

To  write  the  poem  of  the  human  con.soience,  were  it  only  of  a  single 
man,  were  it  only  of  the  most  infamous  of  men,  would  be  to  swallow  up 
nil  epics  in  a  superior  and  final  epic.  The  cousciencc  is  tho  chaos  of 
chimeras,  of  lusts  and  of  temptations,  tho  furnace  of  dreams,  the  cave 
of  tho  ideas  which  are  our  shame;  it  is  the  pandemonium  of  sophisms, 
the  battle-field  of  the  passions.  At  certain  hours,  penetrate  within  the 
livid  face  of  a  human  being  who  reflects,  and  look  at  what  lies  behind; 
look  into  that  soul,  look  into  that  ob.scurity.  There,  beneath  the  exter- 
nal silence,  there  are  coiubats  of  giants  as  in  Homer,  melees  of  dragons 
and  hydras,  and  clouds  of  phantoms  as  in  Milton,  ghostly  labyrinths  as 
in  Dante.  What  a  gloom  enwraps  that  infinite  which  each  man  beara 
within  himself,  and  by  which  ho  measures  in  despair  the  desires  of  his 
will,  and  the  actions  of  his  life ! 

Alighieri  arrived  one  day  at  an  ill-omened  door  before  which  he  hesi- 
tated. Here  is  one  also  before  us  on  the  threshold  of  which  we  hesitate. 
Let  us  enter,  notwithstanding. 

We  have  but  little  to  add  to  what  the  reader  already  knows,  concern- 
ing what  had  happened  to  Jean  Yaljean,  since  his  advcBture  with  Petit 
Gervais.  From  that  moment,  we  have  se»n,  he  was  another  man.  What 
the  Bishop  had  desired  to  do  with  him,  that  ho  had  executed.  It  was 
more  than  a  transformation — it  was  a  transfiguration. 

He  succeeded  in  escaping  from  sight,  sold  the  Bishop's  silver,  keeping 
^  only  the  candlesticks  as  souvenirs,  glided  quietly  from  city  to  city  across 


FANTINS.  147 

France,  came  to  M sur  M ,  conceived  the  idea  that  we  have  de- 
scribed, accomplished  what  we  have  related,  gained  the  point  of  making 
himself  unassailable  and  inacoossible,  and  thenceforward,  established  at 

M sur  M ,  happy  to  fe«l  his  conscience  saddened  by  his  past, 

and  the  last  half  of  his  existence  giving;  the  lie  to  the  first,  he  lived 
in  peace,  re-assured,  and  hopeful,  having  bijt  two  thoughts:  to  conceal 
his  name,  and  to  sanctify  his  life ;  to  escape  from  men  and  to  return  to 
•God. 

These  two  thoughts  were  associated  so  closely  in  his  mind,  that  they 
formed  but  a  single  one;  they  were  both  equally  absorbing  and  impe- 
rious, and  ruled  his  slightest  actions.  Ordinarily  they  were  in  harmopy 
in  the  Tcgulation  of  the  conduct  of  his  life  j  they  turned  him  towards 
the  dark  side  of  life;  they  made  him  benevolent  and  simple-hearted; 
they  counselled  him  to  the  same  things.  Sometimes,  however,  there 
was  a  conflict  between  them.  In  such  cases,  it  will  be  remembered,  the 
man,  whom  all  the  country  around  M sur  M called  Mr.  Made- 
leine, did  not  waver  in  sacrificing  the  first  to  the  second,  his  security  to 
his  virtue.  Thus,  in  despite  of  all  reserve  and  of  all  prudence,  he  had 
kept  the  Bishop's  candlesticks,  worn  mourning  for  him,  called  and  ques- 
tioned all  the  little  Savoyards  who  passed  by,  gathered  information  con- 
cerning the  families  at  Faverolles,  and  saved  the  life  of  old  Fauchele- 
vent,  in  spite  of  the  disquieting  insinuations  of  Javert.  It  would  seem, 
we  have  already  remarked,  that  he  thought,  following  the  example  of 
all  who  have  been  wise,  holy,  and  just,  that  his  highest  duty  was  not 
towards  himself. 

But  of  all  these  occasions,  it  must  be  said,  none  had  ever  been  any- 
thing like  that  which  was  now  presented.  •- 

Never  had  the  two  ideas  that  governed  the  unfortunate  man  whose 
Bufferings  we  are  relating,  engaged  in  so  serious  a  struggle.  He  com- 
prehended this  confusedly,  but  thoroughly,  from  the  first  words  that 
Javert  pronounced  on  entering  his  office.  'At  the  moment  when  that 
name  which  he  had  so  deeply  buried  was  so  strangely  uttered,  he  was 
seized  with  stupor,  and  as  if  intoxicated  by  the  sinister  grotesqueness  of 
his  destiny,  and  through  that  stupor  he  felt  the  shudder  which  precedes 
great  shocks;  he  bent  like  an  oak  at  the  approach  of  a  storm,  like  a  sol- 
dier at  the  approach  of  an  assault.  He  felt  clouds  full  of  thunderings 
and  lightnings  gathering  upon  his  head.  Even  while  listening  to  Ja- 
vert, his  first  thought  was  to  go,  to  run,  to  denounce  himself,  to  drag 
this  Champmathieu  out  of  prison,  and  to  put  himself  in  his  place;  it 
was  painful  and  sharp  as  an  incision  into  the  living  flesh,  but  it  passed 
away,  and  he  said  to  himself:  'Let  us  see!  Let  us  see!"  He  re- 
pressed this  first  generous  impulse  acd  recoiled  before  .such  heroism. 

Doubtless  it  would  have  been  fine  if,  after  the  holy  words  of  the. 
Bishop,  after  so  many  years  of  repentance  and  self-denial,  it>  the  midst 
of  a  penitence  admirably  commenced,  even  in  the  presence  of  so  terri- 
ble a  dilemma,  he  had  not  faltered  an  instant,  and  had  continued  to 
march  on  with  even  pace  towards  that  yawning  pit  at  the  bottom  of 
which  was  heaven ;  this  would  hate  been  fine,  but  this  was  not  the  case. 
Wo-  must  render  an  account  of  what  took  place  in  that  soul,  and  we  can 
relate  only  what  was  there.  What  first  gained  control  was  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation ;  he  collected  his  ideas  hastily,  stifled  his  emotioQ& 


148  LES    MISfiRABLES.         ^ 

took  into  consideration  the  presence  of  Javert,  the  great  danger,  post- 
poned nny  decision  with  the  ftrmnesa  of  terror,  banished  from  his  mind 
all  con.'idrraJion  of  the  course  he  should  pursue,  and  rcaumed  his  calm- 
ness as  a  gladiator  retakes  his  buckler. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  in  this  state,  a  tempest  vrithin,  a  per- 
fect calm  without;  h«  took  only  what  mi<rht  be  called  prccautionarj 
measures.  All  was  still  confused  and  jostling  in  his  brain;  the  agita- 
tion there  was  such  that  he  did  not  see  distinctly  the  form  of  any  idea; 
and  he  coul4>  have  told  nothing  of  himself,  unless  it  were  that  ho  had 
jnst  received  a  terrible  blow.  He  went  according  to  his  habit  to  the  sick 
bed  of  Fantine,  anti  prolonged  his  visit,  by  an  instinct  of  kindness,  pay- 
ing to  himself  that  he  ought  to  do  so,  and  recommend  hcrearuestly  to 
the  sisters,  in  case  it  should  happen  that  he  would  have  to  be  absent. 
He  felt  vaguely  that  it  would  perhaps  be  necessary  for  him  to  go  to  Ar- 
ras;  and  without  having  in  the  least  decided  upon  this  journey,  he  said 
to  himself  that,  cntiruly  free  from  suspicion  as  he  was,  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  in  being  a  witness  of  what  might  pass,  and  ho  engaged 
ScaufS;iire'8  tilbury,  in  order  to  be  prepared  for  any  emergency. 

Ho  dined  with  a  good  appetite. 

Keturning  to  hi,s  room  he  collected  his  thoughts. 

He  examined  the  situation  and  found  it  an  tiheard-of  one;  so  un- 
heard-of that  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie,  by  some  strange  impulse  of 
almost  inexplicable  anxiety,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  bolt«d  his  door. 
He  feared  lest  something  might  yet  enter.  He  barricaded  himself 
against  all  po.ssibilities. 

A  moment  afterwards  ha  blew  out  his  light.     It  annoyed  him. 
•   It  seemed  to  him  that  somebody  could  see  him. 

Who  ?     Somebody  T 

Alas!  what  he  wanted  to  keep  out  of  doors  had  entered;  what  he 
wanted  to  render  blind  was  looking  upon  him.     His  conscience. 

His  conscience,  that  is  to  say",  God. 

At  the  first  moment,  however,  he  deluded  himself;  he  had  a  feeling 
of  safety  and  solitude;  the  bolt  drawn,  he  believed  himself  impregna- 
ble; the  candle  put  out,  he  felt  himself  invisible.  Then  he  toik  pos- 
session of  himself;  he  placed  his  elbows  on  the  table,  rested  his  head  on 
his  hand,  and  set  himself  to  meditating  in  the  darkness. 

"Where  am  I?  Am  I  not  in  a  dream?  What  have  I  heard?  Is 
it  really  true  that  I  saw  this  Javert,  and  that  he  talked  to  me  so?  Who 
can  this  Champmathieu  be?  He  resembles  me  then?.  Is  it  possible 7 
When  I  thirik  that  yesterday  I  was  so  calm,  and  lo  far  from  suspecting 
anythini:!  What  was  I  doing  yesterd  ly  at  this  time?  What  is  there 
in  this  matter?     How  will  it  turn  out?     What  is  to  be  done?" 

Such  was  the  torment  he  was  in.  His  brain  had  losftlie  power  of 
retaining  its  ideas;  they  passed  away  like  wares,  and  ho  grasped  his 
forehead  with  both  hands  to  stay  them. 

Out  of  this  tumult,  which  overwhelmed  his  will  and  bis  reason,  and 
from  which  he  sought  to  draw  a  certainty  and  a  resolution,  nothing  came 
clearly  forth  but  anguish. 

His  brain  was  burning.  He  went  to  the  window  and  threw  it  wido 
open.  Not  a  star  was  in  the  sky.  He  returned  and  sat  down  by  the 
table. 


FANTINE.  149 

The  first  hour  thus  rolled  away. 

Little'  by  little,  however,  vague  outlines  began  to  taVe  form  and  to 
fix  themselves  in  his  meditation ;  ho  could  perceive,  with  the  precision 
of  reality,  not  the  whole  of  the  situation,  but  a  few  details. 

He  began  by  recognizing  that,  however  extraordinary  and  critical  the 
situation  was,  he  w:is  completely  master  of  it. 

His  stupor  only  became  the  deeper. 

Independently  of  the  severe  and  religious  aim  that  his  actions  had  in 
•view,  all  that  he  had  done  up  to  this  day  was  only  a  hole  that  he  wa.<? 
digging  in  which  to  bury  his  name.  What  he  had  always  most  dreaded, 
in  his  hours  of  self-communion,  in  his  sleepless  nights,  was  the  thought 
of  ever  hearing  that  name  pronounced  ;  he  felt  that  would  bo  for  hira 
the  end  of  all ;  that  the  day  on  which  that  name  should  re-appear  would 
sea  vanish  from  around  him  his  new  life,  and,  who  knows,  even  perhaps 
his  new  soul  from  within  him.  He  shuddered  at  the  bare  thought  that 
it  was  possible.  Surely,  if  any  one  had  told  him  at  such  moments  that 
an  hour  would  come  when  that  name  would  resound  in  his  car,  when 
that  hideous  word,  Jean  Valjean,  would  start  forth  suddenly  from  the 
night  and  stand  before  him;  when  this  fearful  glare,  destined  to  dissi- 
pate the  mystery  in  which  he  had  wrapped  himself,  yK,ould  flish  suddenly 
upon  his  head,  and  that  this  name  would  not  menace' him,  that  this  glare 
would  ouly  make  his  obscurity  the  deeper,  that  this  rending  of  the  veil 
would  increase  the  mystery,  that  this  earthquake  would  consolidate  his 
edifice,  that  this  prodigious  event  would  have  no  other  result,  if  it  seemed 
good  to  him,  to  himself  alone,  than  to  render  his  existence  at  once  more 
brilliant  and  more  impenetrable,  and  that,  from  his  encounter  with  the 
phantom  of  .Tean  Valjean,  the  good  and  worthy  citizen,  Mr.  iSladeleine, 
would  come  forth  more  honored,  more  peaceful,  and  more  respected  than 
ever — if  any  one  had  said  this  to  him,  he  would  have  shaken  his  head 
and  looked  upon  the  words  as  nonsense.  Well!  precisely  that  had  hap- 
pened ;  *all  this  grouping  of  the  impossible  was  now  a  fact,  and  God  had 
permitted  these  absurdities  to  become  real  things! 

His  musings  continued  to  grow  clearer.  He  was  getting  a  wider  and 
wider  view  of  his  position. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  just  awaked  from  some  wondrous  slum- 
ber, and  that  he  found  himself  gliding  over  a  precipice  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  standing,  shivering,  recoiling  in  vain,  upon  the  very  edge  of 
an  abyss.  He  perceived  distinctly  in  the  gloom  an  unknown  man,  a 
stranger,  whom  fate  had  mistaken  for  him,  and  was  pushing  into  the 
gulf  in  his  place.  It  was  necessary,  in  order  that  the  gulf  should  bo 
closed,  that  some  one  should  fall  in,  he  or  the  other. 

He  had  only  to  let  it  alone.  ' 

The  light  became  complete,  and  he  recognized  this  :  That  his  place  at 
the  galleys  was  empty,  that  do  what  he  could  it  was  always  awaiting 
him,  that  the  robbing  of  Petit  Gervais  sent  him  back  there,  that  this 
empty  place  would  await  him  and  attract  him  until  he  should  be  there, 
that  this  was  inevitable  and  fatal.  Aftd  then  he  said  to  himiiclf :  That 
at  this  very  moment  he  had  a  substitute,  that  it  appeared  that,  a  man 
named  Champmathieu  had  that  unhappy  lot,  and  that,  as  for  himself, 
present  in  future  at  the  galleys  in  the  person  of  this  Champmathieu, 
present  in  society  under  the  name  of  Mr.  Madeleine,  he  bad  nothing 


150  LES    MI6KRABLES. 

pore  to  fear,  provided  he  did  not  prevent  men  from  sealing  upon  the 
head  of  this  Chanipmathieu  that  stone  of  infamy  which,  like  the  stone 
Of  the  sepulchre,  falls  once  never  to  rise  again. 

All  this  was  so  violent  and  so  strange  that  he  suddenly  felt  that  kind 
of  indescribable  movement  that  no  man  experiences  more  than  two  or 
three  times  in  his  life,  a  sort  of  convulsion  of  the  conscience  that  stirs, 
np  all  that  is  dubious  in  the  heart,  which  is  composed  of  irony,  of  joy, 
and  of  despair,  and  which  might  be  called  a  bur^  of  interior  laughter. 

He  hastily  relighted  his  candle. 

"  Well,  what !"  said  he,  "  what  am  I  afraid  of?  why  do  I  ponder  over 
these  things?  I  am  now  safe!  all  is  finished.  There  was  but  a  single 
half-open  door  through  which  my  past  could  make  an  irruption  into  my 
life;  that  door  is  now  walled  up!  for  ever!  This  Javcrt  who  has  trou- 
bled me  so  long,  that  fearful  instinct  which  seemed  to  have  divined  the 
truth,  that  had  divined  it,  in  fact !  and  which  followed  me  everywhere, 
that  terrible  bloodhound  always  in  pursuit  of  me,  he  is  thrown  off  the 
track,  engrossed  elsewhere,  absolutely  baffled.  He  is  satisfied  hence- 
forth, he  will  leave  me  in  quiet,  he  holds  his  Jean  Valjean  fast!  Who 
knows !  it  is  even  probable  that  he  will  want  to  leave  the  city  !  And 
all  that  is  accomplished  without  my  aid !  And  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it !  Ah  yes,  but,  what  is  there  unfortunate  in  all  this !  People 
who  should  see  roe,  upon  my  honor,  would  think  that  a  catastrophe  had 
befallen  me !  After  all,  if  there  is  any  harm  done  to  anybody,  it  is  ia 
no  wise  my  fault.  Providence  has  done  it  all.  This  is  what  Ho  wishes 
apparently.  Have  I  the  right  to  disarrange  what  He  arranges  ?  What 
is  it  that  I  ask  for  now?  Why  do  I  interfere?  It  does  not  concern 
me.  How!  lam  not  satisfied !  But  what  would  I  have  then?  The 
aim  to  which  I  have  aspired  for  so  many  years,  my  nightly  dream,  the 
object  of  my  prayers  to  heaven,  security,  I  have  gained  it.  It  is  God's 
will.  I  must  do  nothing  contrary  to  the  will  of  God.  And  why  is  it 
God's  will?  That  I  may  carry  on  what  I  have  begun,  that  I  may  do 
good,  that  I  may  be  one  day  a  grand  and  encouraging  example,  that  it 
may  be  said  that  there  was  finally  some  little  happiness  resulting  from 
this  suffering  which  I  have  undergone  and  this  virtue  to  which  I  halve 
returned  !  Really  I  do  not  understand  why  I  was  so  much  afraid  to  go 
to  this  honest  curate  and  tell  him  the  whole  story  as  a  confessor,  and 
ask  his  advice;  that  is  evidently  what  he  would  have  said  to  mo.  It  is 
decided,  let  the  matter  alone!  let  us  not  interfere  with  God." 

Thus  he  spoke  in  the  depths  of  his  conscience,  hanging  over  what 
might  be  called  his  own  abyss.  He  rose  from  his  chair, 'and  began  to 
walk  the  room.  "Come,"  said  he,  *' let  us  think  of  it  no  more.  The 
Resolution  is  formed  !"     But  he  felt  no  joy. 

Quite  the  contrary. 

One  can  no  more  prevent  the  mind  from  returning  to  an  idea  than  the 
sea  from  returning  to  a  shore.  In  the  case  of  a  sailor,  this  is  called  the 
tide ;  in  the  case  of  the  guilty,  it  is  called  remorse,  God  upheaves  the 
soul  as  well  as  the  ocean.  ^ 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments,  he  could  do  no  otherwise,  he  re- 
sumed this  sombre  dialogue,  in  which  it  was  himself  who  spoke  and 
himself  who  listened,  saying  what  he  wished  to  keep  silent,  listening  to 
what  he  did  not  wish  to  hear,  yielding  to  that  mysterious  power  which 


FANTINE.  151 

said  to  hira  :  "  Think  !V  as  it  said  two  thousand  years  ago  to  another 
condemned  :  '*  March  !" 

Before  going  further,  and  in  order  to  be  fully  understood,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  we  should  make,  with  some  emphasis,  a  single  observation. 

It  is  certain  that  we  talk  with  ourselves ;  there  is  not  a  thinking  be- 
ing who  has  not  experienced  that.  We  may  say  even  that  the  Word  is 
never  a  more  magnificent  mystery  than  when  it  goes,  in  the  interior  of 
a  man,  from  his  thought  to  his  conscience,  and  returns  from  his  con- 
science to  his  thought.  It  is  in  this  sense  only  that  the  words  must  be 
understood,  so  often  employed  in  this  chapter,  he.  said,  he  exclaimed  ; 
we  say  to  ourselves,  we  speak  to  ourselves,  we  exclaim  within  ourselves, 
the  external  silence  not  being  broken.  There  is  a  great  tumult  within  ; 
everything  within  us  speaks,  except  the  tongue.  The  realities  of  the 
soul,  because  they  are  not  visible  and  palpable,  are  not  the  less  realities. 

lie  asked  himself  then  where  he  was.  He  questioned  himself  upon 
this  "resolution  formed."  He  confessed  to  himself  that  all  that  he  had 
been  arranging  in  his  miadwas  monstrous,  that  "  to  let  the  matter  alone, 
not  to  interfere  with  God,"  was  simply  horrible,  to  let  this  mistake  of 
destiny  and  of  men  be  accomplished,  not  to  prevent  it,  to  lend  himself 
to  it  by  his  silence,  to  do  nothing,  finally,  was  to  do  all !  It  was  the 
last  degree  of  hypocritical  meanness !  it  was  a  base,  cowardly,  lying,  ab- 
ject, hideous  crime  ! 

For  the  first  time  within  eight  years,  the  unhappy  man  had  just  tasted 
the  bitter  flavor  of  a  wicked  thought  and  a  wicked  action. 

lie  spit  it  out  with  disgust. 

lie  continued  to  question  himself.  He  sternly  asked  himself  what  he 
had  understood  by  this:  "My  object  is  attained"  He  declared  that 
his  life,  in  truth,  did  have  an  object.  But  what  object?  to  conceal  his 
name  ?  to  deceive  the  police  ?  was  it  for  so  petty  a  thing  that  he  had 
done  all  that  he  had  done  ?  bad  he  no  other  object,  which  was  the  great 
one,  which  was  the  true  one?  To  save,  not  his  body,'  but  his  soul.  To 
become  honest  and  good  again.  To  be  an  upright  man  !  Was  it  not 
that  above  all,  that  alone,  which  he  had  always  wished,  and  which  the 
Bishop  had  enjoined  upon  him  ?  But  he  was  ng*  closing  it,  great  God  ! 
he  was  re-opening  it  by  committing  an  infamous  act !  for  he  became  a 
robber  again,  and  the  most  odious  of  robbers  !  he  robbed  another  of  his 
existence,  his  life,  his  peace,  his  place  in  the  world ;  he  became  an  as- 
sassin !  he  murdered,  he  murdered  in  a  moral  sense  a  wretched  man  ;  he 
inflicted  upon  hira  that  frightful  life  in  death,  that  living  burial,  which 
is  called  the  gallows  I  on  the  contrary,  to  deliver  himself  up,  to  save  this 
man,  stricken  by  so  ghastly  a  mistake,  to  re-assume  hfs  name,  to  become 
again  from  duty  the  convict  Jean  Valjean ;  that  was  really  to  achieve 
his  resurrection,  and  to  close  forever  the  hell  from  whence  he  had 
emerged !  to  fall  back  into  it  in  appearance,  was  to  emerge  in  reality ! 
he  must  do  that !  all  he  had  done  was  nothing,  if  ho  did  not  do  that ! 
all  his  life  was  useless,  all  his  suflfering  was  lost.  He  had  only  to  ask 
the  question  :  "  What  is  the  use  ?"  He  felt  that  the  Bishop  was  there, 
that  the  Bishop  was  present  all  the  more  that  he  was  dead,  that  tho 
Bishop  was  looking  fixedly  at  him,  that  henceforth  Mayor  Madeleine, 
with  all  bis  virtues,  would  be  abominable  to  bim,  and  the  galley  slave, 
Jean  Valjean,  would  bo  admirable  and  pure  in  his  tight.    That  men  saw 


152  LBS   MIS^RABLES. 

bis  mask,  but  tho  Bishop  saw  his  face.  That  mQO  saw  bis  life,  but  the 
Bishop  saw  his  conscience,  lie  niu-«t  then  go  to  Arras,  deliver  the 
wrong  Jcun  Valjean,  deniunce  the  rif;ht  one.  Alas  !  that  was  the  great- 
est of  sacrifices,  the  most  poignant  of  victories,  the  final  step  to  be  taken  ; 
but  he  must  do  it.  Mournful  destiny  I  he  could  only  enter  into  sanctitj 
in  the  eyes  of  God,  by  returning  into  infamy  in  tho  C3C3  of  men  ! 

'*  Well,"  said  he,  *'  let  us  take  this  course  !  let  us  do  our  duty  1  Let 
us  F^ve  this  man  !" 

He  pronounced  these  words  in  a  loud  voice,  without  perceiving  that  he 
was  speaking  aloud. 

Jie  took  his  books,  verified  them,  and  put  them  in  order.  He  threw 
into  the  fire  a  package  of  notes  which  lie  held  against  needy  small  traders. 
He  wrote  a  letter,  wjiich  he  sealed,  and  upon  the  envelope  of  which 
might  have  been  read,  if  there  had  been  any  one  in  the  room  at  the  time  : 
Mr.  Lajfittc,  Banker,  Rue  d'Artuis,  J\iri)i. 

He  drew  from  his  desk  a  pocket-book  containing  some  bank  notes 
and  the  passport  that  he  had  used  that  same  year  in  going  to  the  elec- 
tions. 

Had  any  one  seen  him  while  he  was  doing  these  various  acts  with  such 
serious  meditation,  he  wotild  not  have  suspected  what  was  pai^siug  wii bin 
him.  Still,  at  intervals,  his  lips  quivered;  at  other  times  he  raised  hia 
head  and  fi.xed  his  eye  on  some  point  of  the  wall,  as  if  he  saw  just  there 
something  that  he  wished  to  clear  up  or  interrogate. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Laffitte  finished,  he  put  it  in  his  poclict  as  well  as 
the  pocket-book,  and  began  his  walk  again. 

The  current  of  his  thought  had  uot  changed.  He  still  saw  his  duty 
clearly  written  in  luminous  letters,  which  flared  out  before  his  eyes,  and 
moved  with  his  gaze  :   "  Go!  avow  thy  name!  (hwjunre  thyself!" 

He  saw  also,  and  as  if  they  wereTaid  bare'  before  him  with  sensible 
forms,  the  two  ideas  which  had  been  hitherto  the  double  rule  of  his  life; 
to  conceal  his  namc^  and  to  sanctify  his  soul.  For  the  first  time,  they 
appeared  to  liiui  absolutely  distinct,  and  he  saw  the  difi"erenee  which  se- 
parated them.  He  recognized  that  one  of  these  ideas  was  necessarily 
good,  while  the  other  niight  become  evil ;  that  the  former  was  devotion, 
and  that  the  latter  was  selfishness;  that  the  one  said,  **  the  nel<jlibor" 
and  that  the  other  said,  "ine;"  that  tho  one  camo  -from  the  light,  and 
the  otl'.er  from  the  night. 

They  were  fighting  with  each  other.  He  saw  them  fighting.  While 
he  was  looking,  they  had  expanded  before  his  miud's  eye ;  they  were 
now  colossal;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  struggling  within  him, 
in  that  infinite  of  which  we  spoke  just  now,  in  the  midst  of  darkness 
and  gloom,  a  goddess  and  a  giantess. 

He  was  full  of  dismay,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  good  thought 
was  gaining  the  victory. 

He  felt  that  he  had  reached  the  second  decisive  moment  of  his  con- 
science and  his  destiny  :  that  the  Bishop  had  marked  the  first  phase  of 
bis  new  life,  and  that  this  Champmathieu  marked  the  second.  After  a 
great  crisis,  a  great  trial. 

Meanwhile  the  fever,  quieted  for  an  instant,  returned  upon  him  little 
by  little.  A  thousand  thoughts  flashed  across  hitU;  but  they  fortified 
him  ia  his  resolution. 


FANTINK.  153 

One  moment  he  had  said  :  that  perhaps  he  took  the  affair  too  much  to 
heart,  and  tlwt  after  all  this  Champmatliieu  was  not  worthy  of  interest, 
that  in  fact  he  had  committed  theft. 

He  answered  :  If  this  man  has  in  fact  stolen  a  few  apples,  that  is  a 
month  in  prison.  There  is  a  wide  distance  between  that  and  the  gal- 
leys. And  who  knows  even?  has  he  committed  theft?  is  it  proven  ?. 
The  name  of  Jean  Valjean  overwhelms  him,  and  seems  to  dispense  with 
proofs.  Are  not  prosecuting  officers  in  the  habit  of  acting  thus  ?  They 
think  him  a  robber,  because  they  know  him  to  be  a  convict. 

At  another  moment,  the  idea  occurred  to  him  that,  if  he  should  de- 
nounce himself,  perhaps  the  heroism  of  his  action,  and  his  honest  life 
for  the  past  seven  years,  and  what  he  had  done  for  the  country,  would 
be  considered,  and  he  would  be  pardoned. 

IJut  this  supposition  quickly  vanished,  and  he  smiled  bitterly  at  the 
thought,  that  the  robbery  of  the  forty  sous  from  Petit  Gervais  made  him 
a  second  offender,  that  that  matter  would  certainly^re-appear,  and  by 
the  precise  terms  of  the  law,  he  would  be  condemned  to  hard  labor  for 
life. 

He  turned  away  from  all  illusion,  disengaged  himself  more  and  more 
from  the  earth,  and  sought  consolation  and  strength  elsewhere.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he  must  do  his  duty,  that  perhaps  even  he  should 
not  be  more  unhappy  after  having  done  hisduty  than  after  having  evaded 

it;  that  if  he  let  matters  alone,  if  he  remained  at  M sur  M , 

his  reputation,  his  good  name,  his  good  works,  the  deference,  the  vener- 
ation he. commanded,  his  charity,  his  riches,  his  popularity,  hia  virtue, 
would  be  tainted  with  a  crime,  and  what  pleasure  would  there  be  in  all 
these  holy  things  tied  to  that  hideous  thing  ?  while,  if  he  carried  out  the 
sacrifice,  in  the  galleys,  with  his  chain,  with  his  iron  collar,  with  bis  greea 
cap,  with  his  perpetual  labor,  with  his  pitiless  shame,  there  would  be  as- 
sociated a  celestial  idea. 

Finally,  be  said  to  himself  that  it  was  a  necessity,  that  his  destiny 
was  so  fixed,  that  it  was  not  for  him  to  derange  the  arrangements  of  God, 
that  at  all  events  he  must  choose,  either  virtue  without,  and  abomination 
within,  or  sanctity  within  and  infamy  without. 

In  revolving  so  many  gloomy  ideas,  his  courage  did  not  fail,  but  his 
brain  was  fatigued/  He  began  in  spite  of  himself  to  think  of  other 
things,  of  indifferent  things. 

His  blood  rushed  violently  to  his  temples.  He  walked  back  and  forth 
constantly.  Midnight  was  struck  first  from  the  parish  church,  then 
from  the  City  Hall.  He  counted  the  twelve  strokes  of  the  two  clocks, 
and  he  compared  the  sound  of  the  two  bells.  It  reminded  hkn  that,  a 
few  days  before,  he  had  seen  at  a  junkshop  an  old  bell  for  sale,  upon 
which  was  this  name:  Anfoine  Albin  de  Romainville. 

He  was  cold.  He  kindled  a  fire.  He  did  not  think  to  close  the 
window. 

Meanwhile  he  Imd  fallen  into  his  stupor  again.  It  required  not  a  lit- 
tle effort  to  recall  nis  mind  to  what  he  was  thinking  of  before  the  clookl 
struck.     He  succeeded  at  last. 

<'  Ah!  yes,"  eaid  he,  "I  had  formed  the  resolution  to  denonnce  my- 
self" 

And  then  all  at  once  he  thought  of  Fantine. 
11 


154  LES   MISERABLES. 

"Stopl"  said  he,  "this  poor  woman  I" 
Here  was  a  new  crisis. 

Fantine  abruptly  appearing  in  his  reverie,  was  like  a  ray  of  nnex- 
pcctcd  light.  It  seemed  to  him  that  everything  around  him  wna  chang- 
ing its  a.«pect ;  he  exclaimed:  ■        • 

■  "Ah  yes,  indeed  I  so  far  I  have  only  thought  of  my.<«elf!  I  have 
only  looked  to  my  own  convenience  1  It  is  whether  I  .<ihall  keep  pilent  or 
denounce  myself,  conceal  my  body  or  save  my  soul,  be  a  despioiiblo  and 
respected  magi.strate,  or  a.n  infamous  and  venerable  galley-slave ;  it  is 
myself,  always  myself,  only  myself.  But,  good  God  !  all  this  is  egotism. 
Different  forms  of  egotism,  but  still  egotism !  Suppose  I  *hould  think 
a  little  of  others?  The  highest  duty  is  to  think  of  others.  Let  us  see, 
let  us  examine !  I  gone,  I  taken  away,  I  forgotten ;  what  will  become 
of  all  this?  I  denounce  myself?  1  am  arrested,  this  Champmathicu 
is  released,  I  am  sent  back  to  the  gjilleys;  very  well,  and  what  then? 
what  takes  place  here  ?  Ah  !  here,  there  is  a  country,  a  city,  factories, 
a  business,  laborers,  men,  women,  old  grandfathers,  children,  poor  peo- 
ple I  I  have  created  all  thi.';,  I  keep  it  all  alive;  wherever  a  chiiiincy  is 
smoking,  I  have  put  the  brands  in  the  fire  and  the  meat  in  the  pot;  I 
have  produced  e;:se,  circulation,  credit ;  before  me  there  was  nothing;  I 
have  aroused,  vivified,  animated,  quickened,  stimulated,  enriched,  all  the 
country;  without  me,  the  soul  is  gone.  I  take  myself  away;  it  all 
dies.  And  tliis  woman  who  has  .suffered  so  much,  who  is  so  worthy  in 
her  fall,  nil  whose  misfortunes  I  have  uncon.sciously  caused!  And  that 
child  which  1  was  goin?  for,  which  I  have  promised  to  the  mother  I  Do 
I  not  also  owe  something  to  this  woman,  in  reparation  for  the  wrong 
that  I  have  done  her?  If  1  should  disappear,  what_^  happens?  The 
mother  dies.  The  child  bccotiies  what  she  may.  This  is  what  comes  to 
pass,  if  I  denounce  myself;  and  if  I  do  not  denounce  myself?  l^et  us 
see,  if  I  do  not  denouuge  myself?" 

After  putting  this  question,  he  stopped  ;  for  a  moment  he  hesitated 
and  trembled ;  but  that  moment  was  brief,  and  he  answered  with  calm- 
ness : 

"Well,  this  man  goes  to  the  galleys,  it  is  true,  but,  what  of  that? 
He  has  stolen  !  It  is  useless  for  me  to  say  he.  has  not  stolen,  liq  has 
stolen !  As  for  me,  I  remain  here,  I  go  on.  In  teh  years  I  shall  have 
made  ten  millions;  1  scatter  it  over  the  couniry,  I  keep  nothing  for 
myself;  what  is  it  to  me?  What  I  am  doing  i.s  not  for  myself.  The 
prosperity  of  all  goes  on  increasing,  industry  is  quickened  and  excited, 
manufactories  and  workshops  are  multiplied,  families,  a  hundi-ed  fami- 
lies, a  thousand  families,  are  happy ;  the  country  becomes  populous ; 
villages  spring  up  where  there  were  only  farms,  farms  spring  up  where 
there  was  nothing ;  poverty  disappears,  and  with  poverty  disappear  de- 
bauchery, prostitution,  thel't,  murder,  all  vices,  all  crimes !  And  this 
poor  motiier  brings  up  her  child  !  and  the  whole  country  is  rich  and 
noncst !  Ah,  yes  !  How  foolish,  how  absurd  I  \ms  !  What  was  I 
speaking  of  in  denouncing  myself?  This  demands  reflection,  surely, 
and  nothing  must  be  precipitate.  What !  because  it  would  have  pleased 
me  to  do  the  grand  and  the  generous  !  That  is  melodramatic,  after  all  I 
Because  I  only  thought  of  myself,  of  myself  alone,  what!  to  save  from 
a  punishment  perbape  a  little  too  severe,  but  in  reality  just,  nobody 


FANTINE.  155 

.knows  who,  a  thief,  a  scoundrel  at  any  rate.  Must  an  entire  country  be 
let  go  to  ruin !  must  a  poor  hapless  womnn  perish  in  the  hospital !  must 
a  poor  little  girl  perish  on  the  street!  like  dogs!  Ah!  that  would  be 
abominable !  And  the  mother  not  even  see  her  child  again !  and  the 
child  hardly  have  known  her  mother!  And  all  that  for  this  old  whelp 
of  an  apple-thief,  who,  beyond  all  doubt,  deserves  the  galleys  for  some- 
thing else,  if  not  for  this.  Fine  scruples  these,  which  save  an  old  vaga- 
bond who  has,  after  all,  only  a  few  years  (o  live,  and  who  will  hardly  be  ^ 
more  unhappy  in  the  galleys  than  in  his  bovel,  and  which  sacrifice  a 
whole  population,  mothers,  wives,  children !  This  poor  little  Cosette 
who  has  no  one  but  me  in  tlie  world,  and  who  is  doubtless  at  this  mo- 
ment all  blue  with  cold,  in  the  hut  of  these  Thenardiers!  They  too  are 
miserable  rascals!  ,  And  I  should  fail  in  my  duty  towards  all  these  poor 
beings!  And  I  should  go  away  and  denounce  myself!  And  I  should 
commit  this  silly  blunder!  Take  it  at  the  very  worst.  '  Suppose  there 
were  a  misdeed  for  me  in  this,  and  that  my  conscience  should  some  day 
reproach  me ;  the  acceptance  for  the  good  of  others  of  these  reproaches 
which  weigh  only  upon  me,  of  this  misdeed  which  affects  only  my  own 
soul,  why,  tliat  is  devotion,  that  is  virtue." 

He  arose  and  resumed  his  walk.  This  time  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  satisfied. 

Diamonds  are  found  only  in  the  dark  places  of  the  earth ;  truths  are 
found  only  in  the"  depths  of  thought.  It  seemed  to  him  that  after  hav- 
ing descended  into  these  depths,  after  having  groped  long  in  the  blackest 
of  this  darkness,  he  had  at  last  found  one  of  these  diamonds,  one  of  these 
truths,  and  that  he  held  it  in  his  hand ;  and  it  blinded  him  to  look  at  it. 

"  Yes,"  thought  he,  '*that  is  it !  I  am  in  the  true  road.  I  have  the 
solution.  I  must  end  by  holding  fast  to  something.  My  choice  is  made. 
Let  the  matter  alone  !  No  more  vacillation,  no  more  shrinking.  This 
is  in  the  interest  of  all,  not  in  my  own.  I  am  Madeleine,  I  remain 
Madeleine.  Woe  to  him  who  is  Jean  Vafjean  !  He  and  I  are  no  longer 
the  same.  I  do  not  recognise  that  man,  I  no  longer  know  what  he  is; 
if  it  is  found  that  anybody  is  Jean  Valjoan  at  this  hour,  let  him  take 
care  of  himself.  That  does  not  concern  me.  That  is  a  fatal  name 
which  is  floating  about  in  the  darkness;  if  it  stops  and  settles  upon  any 
man,  so  much  the  worse  for  that  man." 

He  looked  at  himself  in  the  little  mirror  that  hung  over  his  mantel- 
piece, and  said  : 

"  Yes  !  To  come  to  a  resolution  has  solaced  me  !  I  am  quite  ano- 
ther man  now." 

He  took  a  few  steps  more,  then  he  stopped  short. 

"Come!"  said  he,  "I  must  not  bet^itate  before  any  of  the  conse- 
quences of  the  resolution  I  have  formed.  There  are  ycU  some  threads 
which  knit  me  to  this  Jean  Valjean.  They  must  be  broken  !  There 
are,  in  this  very  room,  objects  which  would  accuse  me,  mute  things 
which  would  be  viptncsses;  it  is  done,  all  these  must  disappear." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket,  drew  out  his  purse,  opened  it,  and  took  out  a 
little  key. 

He  put  this  key  into  a  lock  the  hole  of  which  was  hardly  visible,  lost 
as  it  was  in  the  darkest  shading  of  the  figures  on  the  paper  which  cov- 
ered the  wall     A  secret  door  opened ;  a  kind  of  false  press  built  between 


156  LES    MIBlSRABLES. 

the  corner  of  the  wall  and  the  casing  of  the  chimney.  There  was  nothing 
in  this  closet  but  a  few  ncfuse  trifles;  a  blue  smock-frock,  an  old  pair  of 
trousers,  an  old  haversack,  and  a  great  thorn  stick,  iron-bound  at  both 
ends.     Those  who  had  seen  Jean  Valjean  at  the  time  he  passed  through 

D ,  in  October,  1S15,  would  have  recognised  easily  all  the  fragments 

of  this  miserable  outfit. 

He  had  kept  them  as  he  had  kept  the  silver  candle-sticks,  to  remind 
him  at  all  times  of  what  he  had  been.  But  he  concealed  what  came 
from  the  galleys,  and  left  the  cundle-sticks  that  came  from  the  IJishop 
in  sight. 

lie  cast  a  furtive  look  towards  the  door,  as  if  he  were  afraid  it  would 
open  in  spite  of  the  bolt  that  held  it ;  then  with  a  quiok  and  hasty 
movement,  and  at  a  single  armful,  without  even  a  glance  at  these  things 
which  he  had  kept  so  religiously  and  with  so  much  danjjer  during  so 
many  years,  he  took  the  whole,  rags,  stick,  haversack,  and  threw  them 
ail  into  the  fire. 

He  shut  up  the  false  press,  and,  increasing  his  precautions,  hi^nceforth 
useless,  since  it  was  empty,  concealed  the  door  behind  a  heavy  piece  of 
furniture  which  he  pushed  against  it. 

In  a  few  seconds,  the  room  and  the  wall  opposite  wore  lit  up  with  a 
great,  red,  flickerinj;  glare.  It  was  all  burning;  the  thorn  stick  cracked 
and  threw  out  sparks  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  haversack,  as  it  was  consumed  with  the  horrid  rags  which  it  con- 
tained, lefr  something  uncovered  which  glistened  in  the  ashes.  By 
bending  towards  it,  one  could  have  easily  recotrnized  a  piece  of  silver. 
It  was  doubtless  the  forty  sous  piece  stolen  from  the  little' Savoyard. 

But  he  did  not  look  at  the  fire;  he  continued  his  walk  to  and  fro, 
always  at  the  same  pace. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  two  silver  candlesticks  on  the  mantel, 
which  were  glistening  dimly  in  the  reflection. 

"Stop!"   thought  he,  "  all  Jean  Valjean  is  contained  in  them  too. 
They  also  must  be  destroyed." 
He  took  the  two  candlesticks. 

There  was  &re  enough  to  melt  them  quickly  into  an  unrecognisable 
ingot.  • 

lie  bent  over  the  fire  and  warmed  himself  a  moment.     It  felt  really 
comfortable  to  him.     "The  pleasant  warmth  !"'  said  he. 
He  stirred  the  embers  with  one  of  the  candlesticks. 
A  minute  more,  and  they  would  have  bi'cn  in  the  fire. 
At  that  niomont,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  a  voice  crying  within 
him:  "Jean  Valjean!  Jean  Valjean!" 

His  hair  stood  on  end ;  he  was  like  a  man  who  hears  some  terrible 
tbing. 

"  Yes!  that  is  it,  finish!"  said  the  voice,  "complete  what  you  are 
doing!  destroy  these  candlesticks!  annihilate  this  memorial !  forget  the 
bishop!  forget  all!  ruin  this  (yhampmathicu,  yes!  vyy  well.  Applaud 
yourself  1  So  it  is  arranged,  it  is  determined,  it  is  done.  Behold  a 
man,  a  greybeard  who  knows  not  what  he  is  accused  of,  who  has  done 
nothing,  it  may  be,  an  innocent  man,  whose  only  misfortune  is  caased 
by  your  name,  upon  whom  your  name  wei^ihs  like  a  crime,  who  will  be 
taken  instead  of  you;  will  be  coudemned,  will  end  his  days  in  abjection 


FANTINE.  157 

and  in  horror !  very  'well.  Be  an  honored  man  yourself.  Remain,  Mr. 
Mayor,  remain  honorable  and  honored,  enrich  the  city,  feed  the  poor, 
bring  up  the  orphans,  live  happy,  virtuous,  and  admired,  and  all  this 
time  while  you  are  here  in  joy  and  in  the  light,  there  shall  be  a  man 
wearing  your  red  blouse,  bearing  your  name  in  ignominy,  and  dragging 
your  chain  in  the  galleys  !  Yes !  this  is  a  fine  arrangement !  Oh, 
wretch  !" 

The  sweat  rolled  off  his  forehead.  He  looked  upon  the  candlesticks 
with  haggard  eyes.  Meanwhile  the  voice  which  spoke  within  him  had 
not  ended.     It  continued  : 

"Jean  Valjean  !  there  shall  be  about  you  many  voices  which  will 
make  great  noise,  which  will  speak  very  loud,  and  which  will  bless  you; 
and  one  only  which  nobody  shall  hear,  and  which  Will  curse  you  in  the 
darkness.  Well,'  listen,  wretch  !  all  these  blessings  shall  fall  before  they 
reach  Heaven ;  only  the  curse  shall  mount  into  the  presence  of  God  I" 

This  voice,  at  first  quite  feeble,  and  which  was  raised  from  the  most 
obscure  depths  of  his  conscience,  had  become  by  degrees  loud  and  formi- 
dable, and  he  heard  it  now  at  his  ear.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  had 
emerged  from  himself,  and  that  it  was  speaking  now  from  without.  He 
thought  he  heard  the  last  words  so  distinctly  that  he  looked  about  the 
room  with  a  kind  of  terror. 

"  Is  there  anybody  here  ?"  asked  he,  aloud  and  in  a  startled  tone. 

Tbeu  he  continued  with  a  laugh,  which  was  like  the  laugh  of  an 
idiot : 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  !  there  cannot  be  anybody  here." 

There  was  One;  but  He  who  was  there  was  not  of  such  as  tke  hu- 
man eye  can  see. 

He  put  the  candlesticks  on  the  mantel. 

Then  he  resumed  this  monotonous  and  dismal  walk,  which  disturbed 
the  man  asleep  beneath  him  in  his  dreams,  and  wakened  him  out  of  bis 
sleep. 

This  walk  soothed  him  and  excited  him  at  the  same  time.  It  some- 
times seems  that  on  the  greatest  occasions  we  put  ourselves  in  motion 
in  order  to  ask  advice  from  whatever  we  may  meet  by  change  of  place. 
After  a  few  moments  he  no  longer  knew  where  he  was. 

He  now  recoiled  with  equal  terror  from  each  of  the  resolutions  which 
he  had  formed  in  turn.  Each  of  the  two  ideas  which  counselled  him, 
appeared  to  him  as  fatal  as  the  other.  What  a  fatality  !  What  a  chance 
that  this  Champmathieu  should  be  mistaken  for  him  !  To  be  hurled 
down  headlong  by  the  very  nu-ans  which  Providence  seemed  at  first  to 
have  employed  to  give  him  full  security. 

There  was  a  moment  during  which  he  contemplated  the  future.  De- 
nounce himself,  great  God  I  Give  him.^elf  up!  He  saw  with  infinite 
despair  all  that  he  must  leave,  all  that  he  must  resume.  He  must  then 
bid  farewell  to  this  existence,  so  good,  so  pure,  so  radiant ;  to  this  re- 
spect of  all,  to  honor,  to  liberty  I  No  more  would  he  go  out  to  walk  in 
the  fields,  never  again  would  he  hoar  the  birds  singing  in  the  month  of 
May,  never  more  give  alms  to  the  little  children  !  No  longer  would  he 
ffcel  the  sweetness  of  looks  of  gratitude  and  of  love  I  He  would  leave 
this  house  that  he  had  built,  this  little  room  !  Everything  appeared 
charming  to  him  now.     He  would  read  no  more  in  these  books,  he  would 


4 


158  LES    MIS^RABLES. 

vrrite  no  moro  on  this  little  white  wood  fable!  His  old  portress,  the, 
only  servant  he  had,  would  no  longer  bring  him  his  coflfee  in  the  morn- 
ing. Great  God  I  instead  of  that,  the  galley-crew,  the  iron  collar,  the 
red  blouse,  the  chain  at  his  foot,  fatigue,  the  dungeon,  the  plank-bed,  all 
these  horrors,  which  he  knew  so  well !  At  his  age.  after  having  been 
what  he  was !  If  he  were  still  youn;j: !  IJut  so  old,  to  be  insulted  by 
the  first  comer,  to  be  tumbled  about  by  the  prison  guard,  to  bo  struck 
by  the  jailer's  stick  !  To  have  his  bare  feet  in  iron-bound  shoes !  To 
submit  morning  and  evening  his  leg  to  the  hammer  of  the  roundsman 
who  tests  the  fetters!  To  eodure  the  curiosity  of  strangers  who  woulijl 
be  told :   I'his..  one  is  the  famous  Jean    Vafjran,  vho  was   Mayor  oj 

M sur  M——!     At  night,  dripping  with  sweat,  overwhelmed  with 

weariness,  the  green  fcap  over  his  eyes,  to  mount  two  by  two,  under  the 
sergeant's  whip,  the  step-ladder  of  the  floating  prii?bn  !  Oh  !  what 
wretchedness  !  Can  destiny  then  be  malignant  like  an  intelligent  being, 
and  becoiue  monstrous  like  the  human  hearth 

And  do  what  he  might,  he  always  fell  back  upon  this  sharp  dilemma 
which  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  thought.  To  remain  in  paradise  and 
there  become  a.  demon  !  To  re-enter  into  hell  and  there  become  an 
angel ! 

What  shall  be  done,  great  God  !  what  shall  be  done  ? 

The  torment  from  which  he  had  emerged  with  so  much  difficulty, 
broke  loose- anew  with  him.  His  ideas  agiiu  began  to  become  confused. 
They  took  that  indescribable,  stupefied,  and  mec;hanical  shape,'  which  is 
peculiar  to  despair.  The  name  of  Komainville  returned  constantly  to 
his  mind,  with  two  lines  of  a  song  he  had  formerly  heard.  He  thought 
that  Romaiuville  is  a  little  wood  near  Paris,  where  young  lovers  go  to 
gather  lilacs  in  the  month  o£  April. 

He  staggered  without  as  well  as  within.  He  walked  like  a  little  child 
that  is  just  allowed  to  go  alone. 

xSuw  and  then,  struggling  against. his  fatigue,  he  made  an  effort  again 
to  arouse  his  intellect.  He  endeavored  to  state  finally  and  conclusively, 
the  problem  over  which  he  had  in  some  sort  fallen  exhausted.  Must  he 
denounce  himself '/  Must  he  be  silent?  He  could  sec  nothing  dis- 
tinctly. The  vague  forms  of  all  the  reasonings  thrown  out  by  his  mind 
trembled,  and  were  di.s»ipated  one  after  another  in  smoke.  But  this 
much  he  felt,  that  by  whichever  resolve  he  might  abide,  necessarily,  and 
without  possibility  of  escape,  something  of  himself  would  surely  die; 
that  he  was  entering  into  a  sepulchre  on  the  right-  hand,  as  well  ns  on 
the  left;  that  he  was  suffering  a  death-Rgony,  the  death-agony  of  %is 
happiness,  or  the  death  agony  of  his  virtue. 

Alas!  all  his  irresolutions  were  again  upon" him.  He  was  no  further 
advanced  than  whon  lie  began. 

So  struggled  beneath  its  anguish  this  unhappy  soul.  Eighteen  hun- 
dred years  before  this  unfortunate  man,  the  mysterious  Being,  in  whom 
are  aggregated  all  the  sanctities  aud  uU  the  sufferings  of  humanity.  He, 
also,  while  the  olive  trees  were  shivering  in  the  fierce  breath  of  the 
Infinite,  had  long  put  away  from  his  hand  the  fearful  chalice  that  ap- 
peared before  him,  dripping  with  shadow  and  running  over  with  dark- 
ness, in  the  star-filled  depths. 


PANTINE.  159 

IV. 

FORMS   ASSUMED   BY   SUFFERING   DURING    SLEEP. 

The  clock  struck  three.  For  five  hours  he  had  been  walking  thus, 
almost  without  interruption,  when  he  dropped  into  his  chair. 

He  foil  asleep  and  dreamed. 

This  dream,  like  most  dreams,  had  no  further  relation  to  the  condi- 
tion of  affairs  than  its  mournful  anl  poignant  (jbaractcr,  but  it  made  an 
impression  upon  liim.  This  nightmare  struck  him  so  forcibly  that  ho 
afterwards  wrote  it  down.  It  is  one  of  the  papers  in  his  own  hand- 
writiiig,  which  he  has  left  behind  him.  We  think  it  our  duty  to  copy 
it  here  literally. 

Whatever  this  dream  may  be,  the  storj'  of  that  night  would  be  in- 
complete if  we  should  omit  it.  It  is  the  gloomy  adventure  of  a  sick 
soul. 

It  is  as  fallows:  Upon  the  envelope  we  find  this  line  written :  "  The 
dream  t/tat  I,had  thdt  night." 

"  I  was  in  a  field.  A  great  sqd  field  where  there  was  no  grass.  It 
did  nob  seem  that  it  was  day,  nor  that  it  was  night. 

"  I  was  walking  with  my  brother,  the  brother  of  my  childhood;  this 
brother  of  whom  I  must  say  that  I  never  think,  and  whom  I  scarcely 
remember, 

"  We  were  talking,  and  we  met  others  vralking.  We  were  speaking 
of  a  neijijhbor  we  had  formerly,  who,  since  she  had  lived  in  the  street, 
always  worked  with  her  window  open.  Even  while  we  ^Iked,  we  felt 
cold  on  account  of  that  open  window. 

"  There  were  no  trees  in  the  field. 

"  We  saw  a  man  passing  near  us.     He  was  entirely  naked,  ashen- 
C'^lcred,  mounted  upon  a  horse  which  was  of  the  color  of  earth.     The' 
man  had  no  hair;  we  saw  his  skull  and  the  veins  in  his  skull.     In  his 
hand  he  held  a  stick  which  was  limber  as  a  twig   of  grape   vine  and 
hekvy  as  iron.     This  horseman  passed  by  and  said  nothing. 

"  My  brother  said  to  me  : 

•*  '  Let  us  take  the  deserted  road.' 

"  There  was  a  deserted  road  where  we  saw  not  a  bush,  nor  even  a 
sprig  of  nio.ss.  All  was  of  the  color  of  earth,  even  the  sky.  A  few 
steps  further,  and  no  one  answered  me  when  I  spoke.  I  perceived  that 
my  b.-othcr  was  no  longer  with  me. 

"  I  entered  a  village  which  I  saw.  I  thought  that  it  must  be  Ro- 
mainville,  (why.ilouiainville?)* 

"  The  fy"st  street  by  which  I  catered  was  deserted.  I  passed  into  a 
second  street.  At  the  corner  of  the  two  streets,  was  a  man  standing 
against  the  wall.  I  asked  this  man  :  '  What  place  i«  this  ?  Where 
am  I  ?' 

"  The  man  made  no  answer.  I  saw  the  door  of  a  house  open ;  I 
went  in, 

"  The  first  room  was  deserted.     I  entered  the  second.     Behind  the 

*  This  parenthesis  is  in  the  band  of  Jean  Valjean. 


160  LES   MIS^RABLES. 

door  of  this  room  was  a  man  standing  against  the  wall.  I  asked  tlws 
man  :  *  Whose  house  is  this  ?  Where  am  I  V  The  man  made  no  an- 
swer.    The  house  had  a  garden. 

"  I  went  out  of  the  house  and  into  the  garden.  The  garden  was 
deserted.  Behind  the  first  tree  I  found  a  man  standing.  I  said  to  this 
man  :  '  What  is  this  garden  ?  Where  am  I  ?'  The  man  made  no 
answer. 

"  I  wandered  about  the  village,  and  I  perceived  that  it  was  a  city. 
All  the  streets  were  deserted,  all  the  doors  were  open.  No  living  being 
was  passing  along  the  streets,  or  stirring  in  the  rooms,  or  walking  in  the 
gardens.  But  behind  every  angle  of  a  wall,  behind  every  door,  behind 
everything,  there  was  a  man  ^tanding  who  kept  silence.  But  one  could 
ever  be  seen  at  a  time.     These  men  looked  at  me  as  I  passed  by. 

"  I  went  out  of  the  city  and  began  to  walk  in  the  fields. 

"  After  a  little  while,  I  turned,  and  I  saw  a  great  multitude  coming 
after  me.  I  recognized  all  the  met^  that  I  had  seen  in  the  city.  Their 
heads  were  strange.  They  did  not  seem  to  hiisten,  and  still  they  walked 
faster  than  I.  They  made  no  sound  in  walking.  In  an  instant  this 
multitude  came  up  and  surrounded  me.  The  faces  of  these  men  were 
of  the  color  of  earth. 

"  Then  the  first  one  whom  I  had  seen  and  questioned  on  entering  the 
city,  said  to  me  : 

"  *  Where  are  you  going  ?  Do  you  ijot  know  that  you  have  been 
dead  for  a  long  time?' 

*'  I  opened  my"  mouth  to  answer,  and  I  perceived  that  no  one  was 
near  me." 

He  awoke.  He  was  chilly.  A  wind  as  cold  as  the  morning  wind 
made  the  sashes  of  the  still  open  window  swing  on  their  hinges.  The 
fire  had  gone  out.  The  candle  was  low  in  the  socket.  The  night  was 
yet  dark. 

He  arose  and  went  to  the  window.  There  were  still  no  stars  in  the 
sky.  * 

From  his  window  he  could  look  into  the  court-yard  and  into  the 
street.  A  harsh,  rattling  noise  that  suddenly  resounded  from  the 
ground  made  him  look  down. 

He  saw  below  him  two  red  stars,  whose  rays  danced  back  and  forth 
grotcMjuely  in  the  shadow. 

His  mind  was  still  half  buried  in  the  mist  of  his  revery :  "Yes  !" 
thought  he,  '<  there  are  none  in  the  sky.     They  are  on  the  earth   novn" 

This  confusion,  however,  faded  away ;  a  second  noise  like  the  first 
awakened  him  completely ;  he  looked,  and  he  saw  tliat  these  two  stars 
were  the  lamps  of  a  carriage.  By  the  light  wbich  they  emitted,  ho 
could  distinguish  the  form  of  a  carriage.  It  was  a  tilbury,  drawn  by  a 
small  white  horse.  The  noise  which  he  had  heard,  was  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  upon  the  pavement. 

"What  carriage  is  that?"  siid  he  to  himself..  "Who  is  it  that 
comes  so  early  ?" 

At  that  moment,  there  was  a  low  rap  at  the  door  of  his  room. 

lie  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  cried,  in  a  terrible  voice : 

"  Who  is  there  ?" 


FANXINE.  161 

Some  one  answered  : 

"  I,  Mr.  Mayor." 

He  recognized  the  voice  of  the  old  woman,  his  portress. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  it  is  just  five  o'clock." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?' 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  it  is  the  chaise." 

"What  chaise?" 

"The  tilbury." 

"What  tilbury?" 

"Did  not  the  Mayor  oifler  a  tilbury?" 

"  No,"  said  he. 

"  The  driver  says  that  he  has  come  for  the  Mayor." 

"What  driver?" 

"Mr.  Scaufflaire's  driver." 

"  Mr.  Sc^ufflaire  ?" 

That  name  startled  him  as  if  a  flash  had  passed  before  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  he  said,  "  Mr.  Scaufflaire  !" 

Could  the  old  woman  have  seen  him  at  that  moment  she  would  have 
been  frightened. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  He  examined  the  flame  of  the  candle  with 
a  stupid  air,  and  took  8ome*of  the  melted  wax  from  around  the  wick  and 
rolled  it  in  his  fingers.  The  old  woman  was  waiting.  She  ventured, 
however,  to  speak  again  : 

"  Mr.  Mayor,  what  shall  I  say  ?" 

"  Say  that  it  is  right,  and  I  am  coming  down." 


V. 

CLOGS   IN   THE   WHEELS. 

fP  The  postal  service  from  Arras  to  M sur  M was  still  performed 

at  this  time  by  the  little  mail  wagons  of  the  dale  of  the  empire.  These 
mail  wagons  were  two-wheeled  cabriolets,  lined  with  buckskin,  hung  upon 
jointed  springs,  and  having  but  two  seats,  one  for  the  driver,  the  other 
for  the  traveller.  The  wheels  were  arnled  with  those  long,  threatening 
hubs  which  keep  other  vehicles  at  a  distance,  and  which  are  still  seen 
upon  the  roads  of  Germat^.  The  letters  were  carried  in  a  huge  oblong 
box  placed  behind  the  cabriolet  and  making  a  part  of  it.  This  box 
was  painted  black  and  the  cabriolet  yellow. 

-  These  vehicles,  which  nothing  now  resembles,  were  indiscribably  mis- 
shapen and  clumsy,  and  when  they  were  seen  from  a  distance  crawling 
along  some  road  in  the  horizon,  they  were  like  tho.se  insects  called,  I 
think,  termites,  which,  with  a  slender  body,  draw  a  great  train  behind. 
The  mail  that  left  Arras  every  night  at  one  o'clock,  after  tlie  passing  of 

the  courier  from  Paris,  arrived  at  M sur  M a  little  before  five 

in  the  morning. 

That  night,  the  mail  thai  came  down  to  M sur  M by  the 

road  from  Hesdin,  ^t  the  turn  of  a  street,  just  as  it  was  entering  the 
city,  ran  a^inst  a  little  tilbury  drawn  by  a  white  horse,  which  was  going 


162  LES   MISERABLES. 

in  the  opposite  direction,  and  in  which  there  was  only  one  person,  a 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak.  The  wheel  of  the  tilbury  received  Q  Teryse- 
vere  blow.  The  courier  cried  out  to  the  man  to  stop,  but  the  traveller 
did  not  listen  and  kept  on  his  way  at  a  rapid  trot. 

"  There  is  a  niaa  in  a  devilish  hurry  I"  said  the  courier. 

The  man  who  was  in  such  a  Lurry  was  he  whom  we  have  seen  strug- 
glinc  in  such  pitiable  convulsions. 

Where  was  he  going  ?  He  could  not  have  told.  Why  was  he  in 
haste?  lie  did  cot  know.  He  went  forward  at  haphazard.  Whither? 
To  Arras,  doujxtless  j  but  perhaps  he  was  going  elsewhere  also.  At  mo- 
ments he  felt  this,  and  he  shuddered.  He  pltfnged  into  that  darkness 
as  into  a  yawning  gulf.  Sonietliing  pushed  him — something  drew  him 
on.  What  was  passing  within  him,  no  one  could  describe,  all  will  un- 
derstand. What  man  has  not  entered,  at  least  once  in  his  life,  into  this 
dark  cavern  of  the  unknown  ? 

But  he  had  resolved  upon  nothing,  decided  nothing,  determined  no- 
thing, done  nothing.  None  of  the  acts  of  his  conscience  had  been  final. 
He  was  more  than  ever  as  at  the  first  moment. 

Why  was  he  going  to  Arras  ? 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said  to  himself  when  he  engaged  the 
cabriolet  of  Scaufllaire,  that,  whatever  might  be  the  result,  there  could 
be  no  objection  to  seeing  with  his  own  eyes,  and  judging  of  the  circum- 
stances for  himself  j  that  it  was  even  prudent,  that  he  ought  to  know 
what  took  place;  that  he  could  decide  nolhing  without  having  observed 
and  scrutinized  ;  that  in  the  distance,  every  little  thing  seems  a  moun- 
tain ;  that  after  all,  when  he  should  have  seen  this  Ohampmathieu,  some 
wretch  probably,  hi§  conscience  would  be  very  much  reconciled  to  letting 
him  go  to  the  galleys  in  his  place  j  that  it  was  true  that  Javert  would 
be  there,  and  Brevet,  Chenildieu,  Cochepaille,  old  convicts  who  had 
known  him ;  but  surely  they  would  not  recognize  him  ;  bah  !  what  an 
idea !  that  Javert  was  a  hundred  miles  off  the  track  ;  that  all  conjec- 
tures and  all  suppositions  were  fixed  upon  this  Champmathicu  ;  and  that 
nothing  is  so  stubborn  as  suppositions  and  conjectures ;  that  there  was, 
therefore,  no  danger. 

That  it  was  no  doubt  a  dark  hour,  bdt  that  he  should  get  through  it ; 
that  after  all  he  held  his  destiny,  evil  as  it  might  be,  in  his  own  hand  j 
that  he  was  master  of  it.     He  clung  to  that  thought. 

In  reality,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  would  have  preferred  not  to  go  to 
Arras. 

Still  he  was  on  the  way. 

Although  absorbed  in  thought,  he  whipped  up  his  horse,  which  trotted 
away  at  that  regular  and  sure  full  trot  tnat  gets  over  two  leagues  and  a 
half  an  hour. 

Inpropintion  as  the  tilbury  went  forward,  he  felt  something  within 
him  which  shrank  back.    ■  .         ' 

At  daybreak  he  was  in  the  open  country ;  the  city  of  M —  sut  M— 
was  a  long  way  behind.  He  saw  the  horizon  growing  lighter ;  he  bo- 
held,  without  seeing  them,  all  the  frozen  figures  of  a  winter  dawn  pass 
before  his  eyes.  Morning  has  its  spectres  a/ well  as  evening.  He  did 
not  see  them,  but,  without  his  consciousness,  and  by  a  kind  of  penetra- 
tion which  was  almost  physical,  those  black  outlines  of  trees  and  hills 


FANTINB.  163 

added  to  the  tumultuous  state  of  his  soul  an  indescribable  gloom  and 
apprehension. 

Every  time  he  passed  one  of  the  isolated  houses  that  stood  here  and 
there  by  the  side  of  the  road,  he  said  to  himself:  "  But  yet  there  are 
people  there  who  are  sleeping  !" 

The  trotting  of  the  hor.se,  the  rattling  of  the  harness,  the  wheels  upon 
the  pavement,  made  a  gentle,  monotonous  sound.  These  things  arc 
charming  when  one  is  joyful,  and  mournful  when  one  is  sad. 

It  was  broad  day  when  he  arrived  at  lle.sdin.  He  stopped  before  an 
inn  to  let  his  horse  breathe  and  to  have  some  oats  given  him. 

This  horse  was,  as  Scauillaire  had  said,  of  that  small  breed  of  the 
Boulonnais  which  has  too  much  head,  too  much  belly,  and  not  enough 
neck,  but  which  has  an  open  chest,  a  large  rump,  fine  and  slendet  legs, 
and  a  firm  foot ;  a  hom9ly  race,  but  strong  and  sound.  The  excellent 
animal  had  made  five  leagues  in  two  hours. 

He  did  not  get  out  of  the  tilbury.  The  stable  boy  who  brought  the 
oats  stooped  down  suddenly  and  examined  the  left  wheel. 

"  Have  you  gone  far  so  ?"  said  the  man. 

Ho  answered,  almost  without  breaking  up  his  train  of  thought : 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Have  you  come  far  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"  Five  leagues  from  here." 

"  Ah  !" 

"  Why  do  you  say,  ah  ?"  '    • 

■  The  boy  stooped  down  again,  was  silent  a  moment,  with  his  eye  fixed 
on  the  wheel ;  then  he  roise  up,  saying : 

"To  think  that  this  wheel  has  just  come  five  leagues,  that  is  possible, 
but  it  is  very  sure  it  won't  go  a  quarter  of  a  league  now." 

He  sprang  down  from  the  tilbury. 

"  What  do  you  say,  my  friend  ?" 
v"  I  say  that  it  is  a  miracle  that  you  have  come  five  leagues  without 
tumbling,  you  and  your  horse,  into  some  ditch  on  the  way.     Look  for 
yourself" 

The  wheel  in  fact  was  badly  damaged.  The  collision  with  the  mail 
wagon  had  broken  two  spokes  and  loosened  the  hub  so  that  .the  nut  no 
longer  hcl<l. 

"My  friend,"  said  he  to  the  stable-boy,  "is  there  a  wheelwright 
here?" 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"Do  me  the  favor  to  go  for  him." 
*■     "There  he  is,  close  by.     Hallo,  Master  Bourgaillard  !" 

Master  Bourgaillard,  the  wheelwright,  was  on  his  own  doorstep.  He 
came  and  examined  the  wheel,  «nd  made  such  a  grimace  as  a  surgeon 
makes  at  the  sight  of  a  broken  leg. 

"  Can  you  mend  that  wheel  on  the  spot  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"When  can  I  start  again  ?" 

"  Tomorrow."  ^ 

"  To-morrow  !" 

"  It  is  a  good  day's  work.     Are  you  in  a  great  hurry  ?" 

"  A  very  great  hurry.     I  must  leave  in  an  hour  at  the  latest." 


164  LES   MISERABLES. 

"  Impossible,  sir." 

"I  will  pay  whatever  you  like." 

"  Impossible." 

"Well!  in  two  hours." 

"  Impossible  to-day.  There  are  two  spokes  and  a  hub  to  be  repaired. 
You  cannot  start  again  before  to-morrow." 

"My  business  cannot  wait  till  to-morrow.  Instead  of  mending  this 
wheel,  cannot  it  be  replaced?" 

"HowJ?o?" 

"  You  are  a  wheelwright  ?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"  Have  not  you  a  wheel  to  sell  me  ?     I  could  start  away  at  once." 

"  A  wheel  to  exchange  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  not  a  wheel  made  for  your  cabriolet.  Two  wheels  make  a 
pair.     Two  wheels  don't  go  together  haphazard." 

"  In  that  case,  sell  me  a  pair  of  wheels." 

"  Sir,  every  wheel  doesn't  go  on  every  axle." 

"  Bi<it  try." 

"It's  of  no  use,  sir.  I  have  nothing  but  cart  wheels  to  sell.  We 
are  a  small  place  here." 

"  Have  you  a  cabriolet  to  let  ?" 

The  wheelwright,  at  the  first  glance,  had  seen  that  the  tilbury  was  a 
hired  vehicle.     He  shrugged  his  shoulders." 

"  You  take  good  care  of  the  cabriolets  that  you  hire  !  I  should  have 
one  a  good,  while  before  I  would  let  it  to  you." 

"  Well,  sell  it  to  me." 

"I  have  not  one." 

"  What !  not  even  a  carriole  ?     I  am  not  hard  to  suit,  as  you  see." 

"Wq  are  a  little  place.  True,  I  have  under  the  old  shed  there," 
added  the  wheelwright,  "an  old  chaise  that  belongs  to  a  citizen  of  the 
place,  who  has  given  it  to  me  to  keep,  and  who  uses  it  every  29th  of 
February.  I  would  let  it  to  you,  of  course  it  is  nothing  to  me.  The 
citizen  must  not  see  it  go  by,  and  then,  it  is  clumsy;  it  would  take  two 
horses." 

"  I  will  take  two  post-horses." 

"  Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Arras.' 

"  And  would  you  like  to  get  there  to-day  ?" 

"I  would." 

"By  taking  post-horses?' 

"Why  not?" 

"  Will  you  be  satisfied  to  arrive  by  four  o'clock  to-morrow  morning?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"I  mean,  you  sec,  that  there  is  something  to  befsaid,  in  taking  post- 
horses.     You  have  your  passport?" 

"Yes." 

"  VV^ell,  by  taking  post-horses,  you  will  not  reach  Arras  before  to- 
morrow. We  arc  a  cross-road.  The  relays  are  poorly  served,  the  horses 
are  in  the  fields.  The  ploughing  season  has  just  commenced ;  heavy 
teams  are  needed,  and  the  horses  are  taken  from  everywhere,  from  the 


FAK^INE.  165 

post  as  well  as  elsewhere.  You  will  have  to  wait  at  least  three  or  four 
hours  at  each  relay,  and  then  go  at  a  walk.  There  are  a  good  many 
hills  to  climb."  « 

"  Well,  I  will  go  on  horseback.  Unhitch  the  cabriolet.  Somebody 
in  the  place  can  surely  sell  me  a  saddle." 

"Certainly,  but  will  this  horse  go  under  the  saddle?" 

"It  is  true,  I  had  forgotten  it,  he  will  not." 

u  Then ." 

"  But  I  can  surely  find  in  the  village  a  horse  to  let?" 

"  A  horse  to  go  to  Arras  at  one  trip  ?" 

"Yes" 

"  It  would  take  a  better  horse  than  there  is  in  our  parts.  You  would 
have  to  buy  him  too,  for  nobody  knows  you.  But  neither  to  sell  nivr  to 
let,  neither  for  five  hundred  francs  nor  for  a  thousand,  will  you  find  such 
a  one." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  The  best  thing  to  do,  like  a  sensible  man,  is  that  I  mend  the  wheel 
and  you  continue  your  journey  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  will  be  too  late." 

«  Confound  it !" 

"Is  there  no  mail  that  goes  to  Arras  ?     When  does  it  pass?" 

"  To-night.  Both  mails  make  the  trip  in  the  night,  the  up  mail  as 
well  as  the  down." 

"  IIow  !  must  you  take  a  whole  day  to  mend  this  wheel  ?" 

"  A  whole  day,  and  a  long  one  !" 

"If  you  set  two  workmen  at  it?" 

"If  I  should  set  ten." 

"  If  you  should  tie  the  spokes  with  cords  ?" 

"  The  spokes  I  could,  but  not  the  hub.  And  then  the  tire  is  also  in 
bad  condition,  too."       ♦   . 

"  Is  there  no  livery  stable  in  the  city?" 

"No." 

"  Is  there  another  wheelwright  ?" 

The  stable  boy  and  the  wheelwright  answered  at  the  same  time,  with 
a  shake  of  the  head — 

"No." 

He  felt  an  immense  joy. 

It  was  evident  that  Providence  was  in  the  matter.  It  was  Provi- 
dence that  had  broken  tbe  wheel  of  the  tilbury  and  stopped  him  on  his 
way.  He  had  not  yielded  to  this  sort  of  first  suuimons;  he  had  made 
all  possible  efi'orts  to  continue  his  journey;  he  had  faithfully  and  scru- 
pulously exhausted  every  means;  he  had  shrunk  neither  before  the 
season,  nor  from  fatigue,  nor  from  expense;  he  had  nothing  for  which 
to.  reproach  himself.  If  he  went  no  further,  it  no  longer  concerned 
him.  It  was  now  n(^t  his  fault;  it  was,  not  the  act  of  bi«  conscience^ 
but  the  act  of  Providence.  ' 

He  breathed.  He  breathed  freely  and  with  a  full  chest  for  the  first 
time  since  Javert's  visit.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  iron  hand  which 
had  grippod  his  heart  for  twenty  hours  was  ft-laxed. 

It  appeared  to  him  that  now  God  was  for  hi  q  was  manifestly  for 
him. 


166  LES   MIS^RABLES. 

• 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  done  all  that  he  could,  and  that  now 
he  had  only  to  retrace  his  steps,  tranquilly. 

If  his  convorjalinn  with  the  wheehvii^ht  had  taken  place  in  a  room 
of  the  inn,  it  would  have  had  no  witnes.^es,  nobody  would  have  heard 
it,  tl>e  matter  would  have  rested  there,  and  it  is  probable  that  we  should 
not  have  had  to  relate  any  of  the  events  which  follow,  but  that  cnnver- 
eation  occurred  in  the  street.  Every  colloquy  in  the  street  inevitably 
gathers  a  circle.  There  are  always  people  who  ask  nothing  better  than 
to  be  spectators.  While  he  was  questioning  the  wheelwright,  some  of 
the  passers  by  had  stopped  around  them.  After  listening  for  a  few 
luiiiutes,  a  young  boy  wiiom  no  one  had  notiqpd,  had  separated  from 
the  group  and  ran  away. 

At  the  instant  the  traveller,  after  the  internal  deliberation  which  we 
have  just  indicated,  was  making  up  his  mind  to  go  back,  this  boy  re- 
turned,    lie  was  accompanied  by  an  old  woman. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  wouian,  "  my  boy  tells  me  that  you  are  anxious  to 
hire  a  cabriolet." 

This  simple  speech,  uttered  by  an  old  woman  who  was  brought  there 
by  a  boy,  made  the  sweat  pour  down  his  back.  He  thought  he  saw  the 
hand  he  was  but  now  freed  from,  re-appear  in  the  shadow  behind  him, 
all  ready  to  seize  him  again. 

He  answered  : 

'Yes,  good  woman,  I  am  looking  for  a  cabriolet  to  hire." 

And  he  hastened  to  add  : 

•'  But  there  is  none  in  the  place." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  the  dame. 

"Where  is  it  then  ?"  broke  in  the  wheelwright. 

"  At  my  house,"  replied  the  dame. 

He  shuddered.     The  fatal  hand  had  closed  upon  him  again. 

The  old  woman  had,  in  fnct,  under  a  shed,' a  sort  of  willow  carriole. 
The  blacksmith  and  the  boy  at  the  inn,<angry  that  the  traveller  should 
escape  them,  intervened. 

**  It  was  a  frightful  go-cart,  it  had  no  springs,  it  was  true  the  seat  was 
hung  inside  with  leather  straps,  it  would  not  keep  out  the  rain,  the 
wheels  were  rusty  and  rotten,  it  couldn't  go  much  further  than  the  til- 
bury, a  real  jumper  I  This  gentleman  would  do  very  wrong  to  set  out 
in  it,"  etc.,  &c. 

This  was  all  true,  but  this  go-cart,  this  jumper,  this  thing,  whatever 
it  might  be,  went  upon  two  wlieels  and  could  go  to  Arras. 

He  paid  what  was  asked,  left  the  tilbury  to  be  mended  at  the  black- 
smith's against  his  return,  had  the  white  horse  harnessed  to  tha  car- 
riole, got  in,  and  resumed  the  route  he  had  followed  since  morning. 

The  moment  the  carriole  started,  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  ielt  an 
instant  before  a  certain  joy  at  the  thought  that  he  should  not  go  whpre 
he  was  goin^.  He  examined  that  joy  with  a  sort  of  anger,  and  thought 
it  absurd.  Why  should  he  feel  joy  at  going  back  '{  After  all,  he  was 
making  a  journey  of  his  own  accord,  nobody  forced  him  to  it. 

And  certainly,  nothing  could  happen  which  ho  did  not  choose  to  have 
happen. 

As  he  was  leaving  Hesdin,  he  beard  a  voice  crying  out-:  "Stop! 
stop  !"     He  stopped  the  carriole  with  a  hasty  movement,  in^  which  there 


FANTINE.  167 

"was  still  something  strangely  feverish  and  convulsive  which  resembled 
hope.  J 

It  vras  the  dame's  little  boy. 

*'  Sir,"  said  he,  "  it  was  I  who  got  the  carriole  for  you." 

"  Well !" 

"You  have  not  given  me  anything." 

He,  who  g:ivc  to  all,  and  so  freely,  felt  this  claim  was  exorbitant  and 
almost  odious. 

"Oh!  is  it  you,  you  beggar?"  said.he,  "you  .shall  have  nothing !" 

He  whipped  iip  the  horse  and  started  away  at  a  ciuick  trot. 

He  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  time  at  Hcsdin,  he  wished  to  make  it  up.. 
The  little  horse  was  plucky,  and  pulled  enough  for  two;  but  it  was  Feb- 
ruary, it  had  rained,  the  roads  were  bad.  And  then  it  was  no  longer 
the  tilbury.  The  carriole  ran  hard,  and  was  very  heavy.  And  besides 
there  were  many  steep  hills. 

He  was  almost  four  hours  going  from  Hesdin  to  St.  Pol.  Four  hours 
for  five  leagues. 

At  Saint  Pol  he  drove  to  the  nearest  inn,  and  had  the  horse  taken  to 
the  stable.  As  he  had  promised  ScaufBaire,  he  stood  near  the  manger 
while  the  horse  was  eating.  He  was  thtnking  of  things  sad  and  con- 
fused. 

The  innkeeper's  wife  came  into  the  stable. 

"  Do  you  not  wish  breakfast?" 

"  Why,  it  is«truc,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  good  appetite." 

He  followed  the  woman,  who  had  a  fresh  and  pleasant  face.  She  led 
him  into  a  low  hall,  where  tliere  were  some  tables  covered  with  oilcloth. 

"  Be  quick,"  said  he;   "I  must  start  again.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 

A  big  Flemish  servant  girl  waited  on  him  in  all  haste.  He  looked  at 
the  girl  with  a  feeling  of  comfort. 

"  This  is  what  ailed  me,"  thought  he.     "  I  had  not  breakfasted." 

His  breakfast  was  served.     He  seized  the  bread,  bit  a  piece,    then 
slowly  put  it. back  on  the  table,  and  did  not  touch  anything  more. 
*  A  teamster  was  eating  at  another  table.     Ho  said  to  this  man  :  ' 

"  Why  is  their  bread  so  bitter  ?' 

The  teamster  waft  a  German,  and  did  not  understand  hrm. 

He  returned  to  the  stable  to  his  horse. 

An  hour  later,  he  had  left  Saint  Pol,  and  wasdriving  towards  Tinques, 
which  is  but  five  leagues  from  Arras. 

What  was  he  doing  during  the  trip?  What  was  he  thinking  about  ? 
As  in  the  morning,  he  saw  the  trees  pass  by,  the  thatched  roofs,  the  cul- 
tivated fields,  and  the  dissolving  views  of  the  country  which  change  at 
every  turn  of  the  road.  Such  scenes  are  sometimes  sufficient  for  the 
soul,  and  almost  do  away  with  thought.  To  see  a  thousand  objects  for 
the  first  and  for  the  last  time,  what  can  be  deeper  and  more  melancholy  ? 
To  travel  is  to  be  born  and  to  die  at  every  instant.  It  may  be  that  in 
the  most  shadowy  portion  of  hi.s  mind,  he  was  drawing  a  comparisoa 
between  these  changing  horizons  and  human  existence.  All  the  facta 
of  life  arc  perpetually  in  flight  before  us;  darkness  and  light  altemato 
with  each  other.  Aff<;r  a  flash,  an  eclipse;  we  look,  we  hasten,  we 
stretch  out  our  hands  to  seize  what  is  passing  ;  every  event  is  a  turn  of 
the  road,  and  all  at  once  we  are  old.     We  feel  a  slight  ehock;  all  is 


168  LBS  MISBRABLBS. 

bUck ;  ytc  distiogoish  a  dark  door;  this  gloomy  borso  of  life  wbicb  was 
carrying  us  ^tops,  and  wc  sec  a  veiled  and  unknown  form  that  turns 
him  out  into  the  darkness. 

Twiliglit  was  fulling  just  a«  the  children,  cominpj  out  of  school,  be- 
held our  travclkr  entering  Tintjues.  It  is  true  that  the  da}-s_  were  still 
short.  He  did  not  slop  at  Tinques.  As  he  was  drivini;  out  of  the 
village,  a  countryman,  who  was  repairing  the  road,  raised  his  head  and 
said  : 

♦'  Your  horse  is  very  tired." 

The  poor  beast,  in  fact,  was  not  going  faster  than  a  walk. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Arras?"  added  the  countryman. 

"Yes." 

**  If  you  go  at  this  rate,  you  won't  get^  there  very  early." 

"  He  stopped  his  horse  and  a.«ked  the  countryman  : 

"  How  far  is  it  from  here  to  Arras  'i" 

"  Near  seven  long  leagues." 

♦*  How  is  that  'f  the  post  route  only  counts  five  and  a  quarter." 

"  Ah  !"  replied  the  workman,  "  tben  you  don't  know  tliat  the  road  is 
being  repaired.  You  will  find  it  cut  oflf  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  here. 
There's  no  means  of  going  further." 

"  Indeed  I" 

"  You  will  fake  the  left,  the  road  that  leads  to  Carency,  and  cross  the 
river;  when  you  are  at  Camblin,  you  will  turn  to  the  right;  that  is  the 
road  from  Mont  Saint-Eloy  to  Arras." 

"  IJut  it  is  night ;  I  shall  lo.se  my  way." 

"  You  are  not  of  these  parts  ?" 

"No." 

"  Besides,  they  arc  all  cross-roads." 

"  Stop,  sir,"  the  countryman  continued,  "  do  you  want  I  should  give 
you  some  advice  1*  Your  horse  is  tired  ;  go  back  to  Tinques.  There  is 
a  good  house  there ;  sleep  there.     You  can  go  on  to  Arras  to-morrow." 

"  I  must  be  there  to-niglit — this  evening  I" 

"  That  is  another  thing.  Then  go  back  all  the  same  to  that  inn,  and 
take  an  extra  horse.  Tbo  boy  tliat  will  go  with  the  horse  will  guide 
you  through  the  cross-roads." 

He  followed  the  countryman's  advice,  retraced  his  steps,  and  a  half 
hour  afterwards  he  again  passed  the  same  place,  but  at  a  full  trot,  with 
a  good  extra  hor.«e.  A  .^^taljlc-boy,  who  called  himself  a  postillion,  was 
sitting  upon  the  shaft  of  the  carriole. 

Ho  flit,  however,  that  ho  was  lo.sing  time.     It  was  now  quite  dark. 

They  were  driving  through  a  cro.'^s-path.  The  road  became  frightful. 
The  carriole  tumbled  from  one  rut  to  the  other.  Ho  said  to  the  pos- 
tillion : 

"  Keep  up  a  trot,  and  double  drink-money." 

In  one  of  the  jolts  the  whiffletree  broke. 

"  Sir,"  paid  the  postillion,  "  the  wbiffle-tree  is  broken;  I  do  not  know 
how  to  harness  my  horse  now;  this  road  is  very  bad  at  night;  if  you 
will  come  back  and  stop  at  Tinques,  wc  can  be  at  Arras  early  to-mor- 
row morning." 

He  answered  : 

**  Have  you  a  piece  of  string  and  a  knife  ?" 


PANTINE.  169 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  cut  oflf  the  limb  of  a  tree  nnd  mado  a  whifflo-trce  of  it. 

Tliis  was  another  loss  of  twenty  minutes;  but  they  started  off  at  a 
galhtp. 

The  plain  was  dark.  A  low  foe,  thick  and  black,  was  creopinp;  over 
the  hill-tops  and  floating  away  like  smoke.  There  were  glimmering 
flashes  from  the  clouds.  A'  strong  wind,  which  came  from  the  sea,  madd 
a  strange  sound  all  around  the  horizon.  Kvery thing  that  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  had  an  attitude  of  terror.  How  all  things  shudder  uudor 
the  terrible  breath  of  night  1 

The  cold  penetmtcd  Iiim  ;  he  had  not  eaten  since  the  evening  before; 
he  recalled  vaguely  to  mind  his  other  night  adventure  in  the  gr^at  plaia 
near  D ,  eiglu  years  Ix^lbre;  and  it  seemed  yesterday  to  him. 

Some  distant  bell  struck  the  hour.     He  asked  the  boy: 

"What  o'clock  is  that?" 

"  Seven  o'clock,  bir ;  we  shall  be  in  Arras  at  eight.  We  hava  only 
three  leagues. " 

At  this  moment  he  thought,  for  the  first  time,  nnd  it  seemed  strange 
that  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  sooner,  that  perhaps  all  the  trouble  he 
was  taking  might  be  useless  ;  that  ho  did  not  even  know  the  hour  of  the 
trial  ;  that  he  should  at  least  have  informed  himself  of  that;  that  it  was 
foolish  to  be  going  on  at  this  rate,  without  knowing  whether  it  would  bo 
of  any  use.  Then  he  figured  out  some  calculations  in  his  raiuil  :  that 
ordinarily  the  sessions  of  the  Courts  of  A'.size  began  at  nine  o'clock  in 
the  morning  ;  that  tliis  case  would  not  occupy  much  time  ;  this  apple- 
stealing  would  be  very  short;  that  there  would  be  nothing  but  a  ques- 
tion of  identity;  lour  or  five  witnesses,  and  some  little  to  be  said  by 
the  lawyers  ;  that  he  would  get  ther(3  after  it  was  all  over! 

The  postillion  whipped  up  the  hor.--es.  They  had  crosiied  the  river, 
and  loft  Mont  Saint  J*jioy  behind  them. 

The  niglit  grew  darker  and  darker. 


VI. 

8ISTKR   SIMPLICE   PUT   TO   TUE   rilOOF. 

Mpanwhile,  at  that  very  niom<»nt,  Fantine  was  in  ecstacics. 

She  had  pa.ssed  a  very  bad  niirht.  ('ough  frightful,  fever  rcdodbled ; 
she  had  bad  dreams.  In  the  morning,  when  the  doctor  came,  she  was 
delirious.  He  appeared  to  be  alarmed,  aiyl  asked  to  bo  informed  as 
soon  fts  Mr.  Madeleine  came. 

All  the  morning  she  was  low-spirited,  spoke  litt1»^,  nnd  was  rmkiog 
folds  in  the  sheets,  murmuring  in  a  low  voi^e  over  some  calculations 
which  appeared  to  bo  calcula  ions  of  distances.  Her  eyes  were  hollow 
and  fixed.  The  li^jht  seemed  almost  pone  our.,  but  then,  at  moni-^s, 
they  wjuld  ha  lig'itcl  up  and  sparkle  like  stars.  It  soonn  as  thougffat 
the  approich  of  u  c-rtai  i  dark  hoar,  the  light  of  heaven  infills  those 
who  arc  leaving  the  light  ol"  earth. 

Whenever  Sister  Sitnplioe  a^sked  her  bow  she  wai,  she  aDi>wered,  in- 
variably : 

12 


170  LES    MISBRADLES. 

"Well.     I  would  like  to  sec  Mr.  Madeleine." 

A  few  months  earlier,  when  Faniine  had  lost  the  last  of  her  modesty, 
her  Ust  tiliaiue,  and  her  la.st  lrappiDe.s8,  she  was  the  shiidow  of  herself; 
now  she  WIS  the  spectre  of  herself.  Physical  sufrerinjj  had  coiupleted 
tho  work  of  moral  suffering.  This  creature  of  twenty-five  years  had  a 
wrinkled  forehoail,  flabby  checks,  pinched  nostrils,  shrivelled  gums,  a 
Iwulcn  complexion,  a  bony  neck,  protruding  ftollar-boucs,  skinny  limbs, 
an  earthy  skin,  and  her  f.iir  hair  was  mixed  with  grey.  Alas !  how 
sickness  extemporises  old  age. 

At  noon  tho  doctor  came  again,  left  a  few  prescriptions,  inquirea  if 
tho  Mayor  had  been  at  the  infirmary,  and  shook  his  head. 

Mr.  Madeleine  usually  came  at  three  o'clock  to  see  the  sick  woman. 
As  exactitude  was  kindness,  he  was  exact. 

About  half-past  two,  Famine  began  to  be  agitated.  In  the  space  of 
twenty  minutes,  she  asked  the  nun  more  than  ten  times:  "  My  sister, 
what  time  is  it?" 

The  clock  struck  three.  "  At  the  third  stroke,  Fantinc  rose  np  in  bed, 
(ordinarily  she  could  hardly  turn  herself,)  she  joined  her  two  shrnnken 
and  yellow  hands  in  a  sort  of  convul-?ive  clasp,  and  the  nun  heard  from 
her  one  of  those  deep  sighs  which  seem  to  uplift  a  great  weiijht.  Then 
Famine  tarned  and  looked  towards  the  door. 

Nobody  came  in  ;  the  door  did  not  open 

She  sat  so  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  tho  door,  mo- 
tionless, and  as  if  bidding  her  breath.  The  Sister  dared  not  speak. 
Tho  church  clock  struck  the  (juartcr.  Fantiac  fell  back  upon  her 
pillow. 

She  said  nothing,  and  again  began  to  make  folds  in  the  sheet. 

A  half-hour  pissed,  then  an  hour,  but  uo  one  came;  every  time  the 
clock  struck,  Fautine  rose  and  looked  towards  the  door,  then  she  fell 
back. 

Her  thought  could  be  clearly  spcn,  but  she  pronounced  no  name,  she 
did  not  complain,  she  found  no  fault.  She  only  coughed  mournfully. 
One  would  have  said  that  something  ^ark  was  settling  down  upon  her. 
Sha  W'<8  livid,  and  her  lips  were  blue.     She  smiled  at  times. 

The  clock  struck  five.  Then  the  sister  hoard  her  speak  very  low  and 
gently  :  <*  IJjt  since  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  ho  does  wrong  not  to 
•come  today  I'' 

Sister  Simplice  herself  was  surprised  at  Mr.  Madeleine's  de^ay. 

Meanwhile,  Fantine  was  looking  at  tho  canopy  of  her  bed.  She 
Bccmed  to  bo  seeking  to  recall  something  to  her  mind.  All  at  once  she 
began  to  sing  in  a  voice  as  feeblo  as  a  whimper. 

It  was  an  old  nursery  song  with  which  she  once  used  to  sing  her  little 
Cosette  to  sleep,  and  which  had  not  occurred  to  her  mind  f -r  the  five 
years  siuce  she  had  had  her  chi'd  with  her.  She  sang  it  in  a  voice  so 
Bsui,  and  to  an  air  so  sweet,  that  it  could  not  but  draw  tears  even  from  a 
nun.  Tho  Sister,  accustomed  to  austerity  as  she  was,  felt  a  drop  upon 
her  «lieck. 

The  clock  struck  six.  Fantine  did  not  appear  to  hear.  She  seemed 
no  longer  to  pay  attention  to  anything  around  her. 

Sidtor  Simplice  sent  a  girl  to  inquire  of  the  portress  of  the  factory  if 


FANTINE.  171 

the  Mayor  had  come  in,  and  if  he  would  not  very  soon  come  to  the  in- 
firmary.    The  girl  returned  in  a  few  minutes. 

.  Fantine  was  still  motionless,  and  appeared  to  bo  absorbed  ia  her  own 
thoughts. 

The  servant  related  in  a  whisper  to  Sister  SinrpHce  that  the  Mayor 
had  gone  away  that  morning  before  six  o'clock  in  a  little  tilbury  drawn 
by  a  white  horse,  cold  as  the  weather  was;  that  he  went  alone,  withqut 
even  a  driver,  that  no  one  knew  the  road  he  had  taken,  that  some  said 
he  had  been  seen  to  turn  off  by  the  road  to  Arras,  that  others  were  sure 
they  had  met  him  on  the  road  to  Paris.  That  wiien  he  went  away  he 
Bcemed,  as  usual,  very  kind,  and  that  he  simply  said  to  the  portress  that 
he  need  not  bo  expected  that  night. 

While  the  two  women  were  whispering,  with  their  backs  turned  to- 
ward? Fantine's  bed,  the  Sister, questioning,  the  servant  conjecturing, 
Fantine,  with  that  feverish  vivacity  of  certain  organic  diseases,  which 
unites  the  free  movement  of  health  with  the  frightful  exhaustion  of 
death,  had  risen  to  her  knees  on  the  bed,  her  slirivelled  hands  resting 
on  the  bolster,  and  with  her  head  passing  through  the  opening  of  the 
curtains,  she  listened.     All  at  once  she  exclaimed  : 

"You  are  talking  there  of  Mr.  Madeleine!  why  do  you  talk  so  low? 
what  has  he  done?  why  does  he  not  come?" 

Her  voice  was  so  harsh  and  rough  that  the  two  women  thought  thej 
heard  the  voice  of  a  man  ;  they  turned  towards  her  affrighted. 

"  )y^hy  don't  you  answer?"  cried  Fantine. 

The  servant  stamn)ered  out: 

"  The  portress  told  me  that  he  could  not  come  to-day." 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Sister,  "be  calm,  lie  down  again." 

Fantine,  without  changing  her  attitude,  resumed  with  a  loud  voice, 
and  in  a  tone  at  once  piercing  and  imperious : 

"  He  cannot  come.  Why  not  ?  You  know  the  reason.  You  were 
whispering  it  there  between  you.     I  want  to  know." 

The  servant  whispered  (juickly  in  the  nun's  ear:  "Answer  that  he  is 
busy  with  the  City  Council." 

Sister  Simplice  reddened  slightly ;  it  was  a  lie  that  the  servant  had 
proposed  to  her.  On  the  other  hand,  it  did  seem  to  her  that  to  tell  the 
truth  to  the  sick  woman  would  doubtless  be  a  terrible  blow,  and  that  it 
was  dangerous  in  the  state  in  which  Fantine  was.  This  blush  did  not 
last  long.     The  Sister  turned  her  calm,  sad  eye  upon  Fantine,  and  said : 

«'  The  Mayor  has  gone  away." 

Fantine  sprang  up  and  sat  upon  her  feet.  Her  eyes  sparkled.  A 
marj^ellous  joy  spread  over  that  mournful  face. 

"  Gone  away  !"  she  exclaimed.     "  He^has  gone  for  Cosette  !" 

Tben  she  stretched  her  hands  towards  ht-aven,  and  her  whole  counte- 
nance became  ineffable.     Her  lips  moved  ;  she  was  praying  in  a  whisper. 
When  her 'prayer  was  ended:  "My  sister,"  said  she,  "I  am  quite 
willing  to  lie  down  again,  1  will  do  whatever  you  wish  j  I  was  naughty 
just  now,  pardon   me  for  having  talked  so  loud  ;  it  is  very  bad  to  talk 
loud  ;  1  know  it,  my  good  sister,  but  see  how  happy  I  am.     God  is  kind, 
Mr.  Madeleine  i<<  good ;  just  think  of  it,  that  be  bat  gone  to  Montfer- 
meii  for  my  little  Cosette." 


ITS  LES    MIS^RABLES. 

8be  laj  down  again,  helped  the  nun  to  arrange  the  pillow,  and  kissed 
ft  little  pilviT  cross  which  she  wore  at  her  Deck,  and  which  L^ibte^  Sim- 
plice  had  ^riTcn  her. 

"  My  chilJ,"  said  the  Sister,  "  try  to  rest  now,  and  do  not  talk  any 
more" 

Fantino  took  the  Sister's  hand  between  hers;  they  were  moist;  the 
8i»ter  was  pained  to  feel  it. 

*•  He  8t{irtod  this  inurniug  for  Paris.  Indeed  he  need  not  even  go 
through  Paris.  Montferiueil  i«  a  little  to  the  Kfi  in  coaiiug.  You  reiuem- 
ber  what  he  said  yestetday,  whm  I  spoke  to  him  uhout  Cosette  :  Vtrysoon, 
VQ-j/  soon  !  This  is  a  .surprise  he  has  for  me.  Ynu  know  he  hud  nie  to 
■ign  a  letter  to  take  her  away  froui  the  Thenardicrs.  They  will  have 
nothing  to  say,  will  they?  They  will  give  up  Cusctte.  liecauso  thcj 
have  their  pny.  The  authorities  would  not  let  them  keep  a  child  whea 
tbey  are  paid.  My  t^i.stor,  do  not  make  siu'ns  to  me  tliu;  I  must  not 
talk.  I  am  very  hilppy,  I  am  doing  very  well.  I  havo  no  paiu  ut  all, 
I  am  going  to  hee  Cosette  again,  1  otn  hungry  even.  For  almost  five 
years  I  have  not  seen  her.  You  do  not,  you  cannot  imagine  what  a  hold 
children  have  upon  you  I  And  then  the  will  be  so  haiid.suine,  you  will 
•eel  If  you  knew,  she  has  such  pretty  littio  rosy  fingers  I  Finst,  she 
will  have  very  beautiful  hands.  She  must  be  large  now.  She  is  seven 
lears  old.  She  is  a  little  lady.  I  call  her  Colette,  but  her  name  is 
Euphrasic.  Now,  this  morning  I  was  looking  ut  the  dust  on  the  man- 
tel, and  I  had  an  idea  that  1  should  see  (\)Sclto  again  very  soon  !^  Oh, 
dear!  how  wrong  it  is  to  be  years  without  .seeing  one's  children  !  We 
ought  to  remember  that  life  is  not  eternal  !  Oh  !  how  good  it  i-<in  tho 
Mayor  to  go — true,  it  is  very  cold!  He  had  his  cloak,  at  lea.st !  Ho 
will  be  here  to-morrow,  will  he  not?  That  will  make  tomorrow  a  ffte. 
To-morrow  morning,  my  Sister,  you  will  remind  mc  to  put  on  my  littio 
lace  cap.  Moutferiiieil  is  a  country  place.  I  made  the  trip  on  foot 
once.  It  was  a  long  way  fur  me.  But  the  diligences  go  very  last.  H« 
will  be  here  to-morrow  with  Cosette !  How  far  is  it  from  here  to  Mont- 
fermcil  ?" 

The  Sister,  who  had  no  idea  of  the  distance,  answered  :  "  Oh !  I  feel 
•ure  that  ho  will  be  here  to  morrow" 

V  To-morrow  !  to-morrow!"  said  Fantine,  "  I  shall  see  Cosette  to-raor» 
row  !  See,  good  Si>ier  <»f  God,  I  am  well  now.  I  am  wildj  I  would 
dance,  if  anybody  wanted  me  to." 

One  who  had  seen  her  a  (juartor  of  an  hour  before  could  not  have  un- 
derstood this.  Now  she  was  all  rosy;  she  talked  in  a  lively,  natural 
tone ;  her  whole  face  was  only  a  smile.  At  times  she  laughed  f  bile 
whispering  to  herself.     A  mother's  joy  is  aluiosl  like  a  child's. 

"  Well,"  resumed  tho  nun,"  "  now  you  aro  happy,  obey  me — do  not 
talk  any  more." 

Famine  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Ye8, 
lie  down  again;  be  prudent  now  that  you  aro  going  to  have  your  child. 
Bieter  Simplice  is  right.     All  here  are  right." 

And  then,  without  moving,  or  turning  her  head,  she  began  to  look  all 
about  with  her  eyes  wide  open  and  a  joyous  air,  and  she  said  nothing 
more. 

The  Sister  closed  the  cartains,  hoping  that  she  would  sleep. 


FANTKNE.  17t 

Between  seven  ami  eight  o'clock  the  doctor  came.  Hearing  no  sound, 
he  supposed  that  Funtine  was  asleep,  went  in  sofrly,  and  approached  the 
bed  on  tiptoe.  He  drew  the  curtains  aside,  and  by  ibc  gliiiiuicr  of  the 
twilight  he  saw  Funtiuc's  large  calm  eyes  looking  at  hira. 

She  said  to  him  :  •*  Sir,  you  will  let  hef  lie  by  my  side  in  a  little  bed, 
won't  you?" 

The  doctor  thought  she  was  delirious.     Sha  added  : 
.     "Look,  there  is  just  vuoni."  ^ 

The  doctor  took  Sister  Simplice  aside,  who  explained  the  matter  to 
him,  that  Mr.  Madeleine  was  absent  for  a  day  or  two,  and  that,  not  be- 
ing certain,  they  had  not  thought  it  best  to  undeceive  the  sick  woman, 
who  b  lieved  the  Ma^'or  had  gone  to  Montfcrnieil;  that  it  was  possible, 
after  all,  that  she  guessed  aright.     The  doctor  approved  of  this. 

He  returned  to  Fantine'H  bed  again, "and  she  continued  : 

"Then  you  see,  in  the  moruiug,  when  she  wak(  s,  I  can  say  gftoi 
morning  to  the  poor  kitten  ;  and  at  night,  when  I  am  awake,  I  can  hear 
her  sK'.op.     Her  little  breathing  is  fo  sweet  it  will  do  me  good." 

"Give  me  your  hani,"  said  the  doctor. 

She  reached  out  her  hand,  and  exclaimed  with  a  laugh  : 

"Oh,  stop!  Indeed,  it  is  true  you  dou't  know!  but  I  am  cured. 
Cosette  is  coming  tomorrow." 

The  doctor  was  surprised.  She  was  better.  Her  languor  was  leag. 
Her  pulse  was  stronger.  A  sort  of  new  life  was  all  at  once  re-animat- 
in^this  poor  exhausted  being. 

"  Doctor,"  she  continued,  "  has  the  Sister  told  you  that  the  Mayor 
has  gone  for  the  little  thing?" 

The  doctor  recommended  silence,  and  that  she  should  avoid  all  pain- 
ful emotion.  He  prescribed  an  iufu.siou  of  pure  quinine,  and,  in  cast 
the  fever  should  return  in  the  night,  a  soothing  potion.  As  he  was  go- 
ing away  he  said  to  the  Sister:  "She  is  better.  If  by  good  fortune 
tlie  Mriyor  should  really  come  back  to-morrow  with  the  child,  who 
knows?  there  are  such  astoni^^hing  crises ;  we  have  seen  great  jry  in- 
stantly cure  diseases;  I  am  well  aware  that  this  is  an  organic  disease, 
and  fur  advanced,  l^ut  this  is  all  such  a  mystery  !  We  shall  save  her 
perhaps!" 


VII. 

*        TQE   TRAVELLER   ARHIVES   AND   PBpVIDKS   FOB    DIS   RETCRBT. 

It  was  nenrly  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  the  carriole  whicfc 
we  left  on  the  road  drove  into  the  yard  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste  at  Ar- 
ras. TItc  man  whom  we  have  followed  thus  far,  got  out,  answcnd  the 
hospitalities  of  the  inn's  people  v.ith  an  ab.sent-niindcd  air,  pent  bsck 
the  extra  hor.><c,  and  took  the  little  white  one  to  the  stable  himself; 
then  he  opened  the  door  of  a  billiard-room  on  the  fir^-t  floor,  took  a  seat, 
ond  leaned  his  elbows  on  a  table.  He  had  spent  fourteen  hours  in  this 
trip,  whic-h  he  expected  to  make  in  six.  He  did  himsrlf  the  justice  te 
feel  th.it  it  Wf)s  not  his  fault;  but  at  bottom  he  was  not  sorry  for  it. 

The  landlady  entered. 


174  LKS   MIS^RABLBS. 

"  Will  jou  have  a  bed  ?  will  you  have  supper?" 
Be  shouk  his  bead. 

"The  suble  b  «y  pays  that  your  horse  is  very  tired." 
Hero  he  broke  hilence. 

"  In  not  ibe  horse  able  to  start  again  to-morrow  morning?" 
"Ob,  Sir!  he  needs  at  least  two  days'  rest." 
He  asked  : 

"  Is  not  the  Bureau  of  the  Post  here?" 
♦'  Yes,  tir." 

The  bosteps  led  him  to  the  Bureau;  he  showed  his  passport  and  in- 
quired if  there  were  an  opportunity  to  return  that  very  night  to  M- 


•ur  M by  the  mail  coach;  only  one  s  "at  was  vacant,  that  by  the 

side  of  the  driver;  be  retained  it  and  paid  for  it.  "Sir,"  said  the 
booking  clerk,  *'  don't  fail  to  be  here  ready  to  start  at  precisely  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning." 

This  done,  be  left  the  hotel  and  began  to  walk  in  the  city. 

He  was  not  acquainted  in  Arras,  tbe  streets  were  dark,  and  he  wcni 
haphazard.  Nevertheless,  he  .seemed  to  refrain  (obstinately  from  asking 
his  way.  He  crossed  the  little  river  Crinciion,  and  found  himself  in  a 
labyrinth  of  narrow  streets,  where  he  was  soon  lost.  A  citizen  came 
•long  with  a  lantern.  After  some  hc.>iifation,  he  determined  to  speak  to 
this  man,  but  not  until  ho  bad  looked  bciore  and  behind,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  that  somebody  might  overhi.-ar  tbe  (juestion   ho  was  about  to  Uiik. 

'•Sir,"  paid  he,  "  the  Court-IIouse,  if  you  please?" 

"  You  are  not  a  resident  of  tbe  city,  Sir,"  answered  the  citizen,  who 
was  an  old  man,  "  well,  follow  nic,  I  am  going  right  by  tbe  Coyrt- House, 
that  is  tossy  the  City  Hull.  For  they  are  repairing  the  Court  House 
jiist  now,  and  the  Courts  arc  holding  their  sessions  at  the  Citji  Hull| 
temporarily." 

"  Is  it  there,"  asked  he,  "  that  tke  Assizes  are  held  ?" 

"Certainly,  Sir;  you  s^e,  what  is  tbe  City  Hall  to-day  was  the  Bisb^ 
op's  palace  bufore  the  Revolution.  Monsieur  de  Conzie,  who  was  bish- 
op iu  'eighty-two,  had  a  large  hall  built.  The  Court  is  held  in  that 
Cli." 

As  they  walked  along,  the  citizen  said  to  him  : 

"  If  you  wihb  to  sec  a  trial,  you  are  rather  late.  Ordinarily  the  sea- 
iions  close  at  six  o'clock." 

However,  when  tiiey  reached  the  great  square,  the  citizen  showed 
him  four  h)ng  lighted  windows  on  the  front  of  a  vast  dark  building. 

"  Faith,  Sir,  you  are  in  time,  you  arc  fortunate.  l)o  you  see  those 
four  windows?  that  is  the  Cpurt  of  Assizes.  There  is  a  light  there. 
Then  they  have  not  finished.  The  case  must  have  becu  prolonged  and 
they  arc  having  an  evening  sos.siou.  Arc  you  interested  la  this  case? 
Is  it  a  criminal  trial?     Are  you  u  witnetiji?"  .    • 

He  answered  : 

"  I  have  no  btsiicss;  I  only  wisk  to.  speak  to  a  lawyer." 

"That's  another  thing,"  said  the  citizen.  "  Stop,  Sir,  here  is  ibo 
door.  The  doorkeeper  is  up  there.  Y^ou  have  only  to  go  up  the  grand 
•tairway." 

He  followed  the  citizen's  instructions,  and  in  a  few  minutes  found 


FANTINB.  175 

himself  in  a  hall  where  there  were  manj  people,  and  scattered  groups 
of  lawyers  in  their  robes  whispering  here  and  there. 

It  is  always  a  chilling  sight  to  see  lliese  gatherings  of  men  clothed  in 
black,  talkinnj  among  themselves  in  a  low  voice  on  the  threshold  of  the 
chamber  of  justice.  It  is  rare  that  charily  and  pity  can  be  found  in 
their  words.  What  are  oftencst  heard  are  sentences  pronounced  in  ad- 
vance. All  these  groups  seem  to  the  observer,  who  passes  musingly  by, 
like  so  many  gloomy  hives  where  buzzing  spirits  are  building  iu  com- 
mon all  sorts  of  dark  structures. 

This  hall,  which,  (hough  spacious,  was  lighted  by  single  lamp,  was  an 
ancient  hall  of  the  Episcopal  palace,  and  served  as  a  waiting-room.  A 
double  folding  door,  which  was  now  closed,  separated  it  from  the  large 
room  in  which  the  Court  of  Assizes  was  in  session. 

The  obscurity  was  such  that  he  felt  no  fear  in  addressing  the  first 
lawyer  whom  he  met. 

*'  Sir,"  said  he,  "  how  are  they  getting  along?" 

'.'It  is  finished,''  said  the  lawyer. 

"  Finished  !' 

Thfi  word  was  repeated  in  such  a  tone  that  the  lawyer  turned  around. 

"  Pardon  me,  Sir,  you  are  a  relative,  perhaps?" 

"No.     I  know  no  one  here      And  was  there  a  sentence?" 

"Of  course.     It  was  hardly  possible  for  it  to  be  otherwise." 

"  To  hard  labor  '(" 

"For  life." 

He  continued  in  a  voice  so  weak  that  it  could  hardly  be  heard  : 

"The  identity  was  established,  then?" 

"What  identity?"  responded  the  lawyer.  "There  was  no  identity' 
to  be  established.  It  was  a  simple  affair.  This  woman  had  killed  her 
child,  the  infanticide  was  proven,  the  jury  were  not  satisfied  that  ihero 
was  any  premeditation ;  she  was  sentenced  for  life." 

"  It  is  a  woman,  then  ?"  said  he. 

"Certainly.     The  Linmsin  girl.     What  else  are  you  speaking  of  if' 

"Nothing,  but  if  it  is  finished,  why  is  the  hall  still  lighted  up?" 

"  That  is  for  the  other  case,  which  commenced  nearly  two  hours  ago." 

"  What  other  ca.se?" 

"Oh!  that  is  a  clear  one  also.  It  is  a  sort  of  a  thief,  a  second  of- 
fender, a  g-alley  slave,  a  ca.so  of  robbery.  I  forget  his  name.  lie  looks 
like  a  bandit  Were  it  for  nothing  but  having  such  a  face,  I  would 
send  him  to  the  galleys.". 

"Sir,"  asked  he,  "is  there  any  mean.s  of  getting  into  the  hall?" 

"  I  think  not,  really.  There  is  a  great  cruwd.  However,  they  are 
taking  a  recess.  Some  people  have  come  out,  and  when  the  session  is 
resumed,  you  can  try."  • 

"  llo.w  do  you  get  in  ?" 

"Through  that  large  door." 

The  lawyer  left  him..  In  a  few  moments,  he  had  undergone,  almost 
at  flie  same^time,  almost  together,  all  possible  emotions.  The  words  of 
this  indifferent  man  had  aUcrnately  pi«  reed  his  heart  like  icicles  and  like 
flanjcs  of  fire.  When  he  learned  that  it  was  not  concluded,  he  drew 
breath  ;  but  he  could  not  have  told  whether  what  he  felt  was  satisfac- 
tion or  pain. 


176  LES    MIS^RABLES. 

lie  krproacbcJ  several  groups  and  ii:itcucd  to  their  talk.  The  onlen- 
dar  of  tho  terra  bcinj;  very  heavy,  the  judge  had  8i't  down  two  shurl, 
iiraplc  casts  fur  that  day.  They  iuid  ltcj:uu  with  the  infatitii-idc,  and 
now  were  on  the  convict,  the  second  ufftinlcr,  tho  "old  stager."  This 
man   had   stolen   some  apples,  but  that  did  not  appear  to  be  very  well 

f)rovcn ;  what  was  proven,  was  that  he  liad  bct-n  in  the  pallejs  at  Tou- 
on.  Tlii.s  wa.<<  what,  ruined  his  case.  The  examiuution  of  tjic  man  had 
been  (Ini.shed,  and  the  testimony  of  tlm  witnesses  had  been  taken;  but 
there  yet  remained  the  arfiuuieiit  of  ilie  counsel,  and  the  summing  up 
of  his  prosecuting  attorney  ;  it' would  hardly  be  fini-hod  before  midnight. 
The  man  woul}i  probably  bo  condemned;  the  prosecuting  attorney  waa 
•?ery  good,  and  never  /ailed  with  his  piiaouera;  Le  was  a  fellow  of  tal- 
ent, who  wrote  poetry. 

An  ofTieer  ^tood  near  the  door  whiob  opened  into  the  court-room.  lie 
asked  this  officer: 

"Sir,  will  the  door  bo  opened  soon?" 

"  It  will  not  be  opened,"  said  the  officer. 

"  How  !  it  will  not  be  opened  when  the  session  ia  resumed?  is  there 
not  a  rc'cess?" 

"The  session  has  just  been  resumed,"  answered  the  officer,  "but  the 
door  will  not  be  opened  again." 

"  Why  uol?" 

"Kecause  the  hall  is  full." 

"What !  there  are  no  more  scats?" 

"Not  a  bingic  one.     The  door  is  closed.     No  one  can  enter." 

The  officer  added,  after  a  sileuoe  : 

*=  There  aro  indeed  two  or  throe  places  still  behind  his  Honor  the 
Judge,  but  he  admitd  none  but  public  functionaries  to  them." 

So  sayitig,  the  officer  turned  his  back. 

He  retired  with  his  head  bowed  down,  crossed  tho  antechamber,  and 
walkeJ  slowly  down  the  staircase,  seeming 'to  hesitate  at  every  step.  It 
i§  probable  tliat  he  wa.s  holding  couns(?l  with  himself.  The  violent  com- 
bat that  had  bcca  going  on  within  him  since  tho  previous  evouins:  was 
not  litii.shcil ;  and,  every  moment,  he  loll  upon  some  new  turn.  When 
he  reached  ;lio  turn  of  the  stairwy,  he  leaned  against  tho  railing  and 
folded  his  arms.  Suddenly  ho  opc^ned  his  coat,  drew  out  his  pocket- 
book,  took  out  a  pencil,  tore  out  a  sheet,  and  wrote  rapidly  upon  that 
sheet,  by   the  glimmering  light,  this   line:    Mr.    Madt/einr.,   Moi/nr  of 

M .s//r  M ;   then   he  went   up  the  htairs  agiun   rapidly,  passed 

through  the  crowd,  walked  straigh'.  to  the  officer,  handi'd  hiiu  the  paper, 
and  said  to  him  with  authority  :  "  (^arry  that  to  his  Honor  the  Judge." 

The  officer  took  the  paper,  cast  his  eyes  upon  it,  and  obeyed. 


VIII. 

ADMISSION   BY   FAVOTl. 


Without  himself  suspecting  it,  the  Mayor  of  M sur had  a 

certain  celebrity.     For  ecvcd  years  the  reputation  of  his  virtue  had 
been  extending  throughout  Bas-Boulonnais ;  it  had  finally  crossed  tho 


PANTINE.  177 

bounclarie9  of  the  little  counfy,  and  had  spread  into  the  two  or  three 
nci^^hboring  departments.  Besides  the  considerable  service  that  he  had 
rendered  to  the  chief  town  bv  reviving  the  manufacture  of  jet-work, 
there  was  not  one  of  the  hundred  and  forly-one  communes  of  the  dis- 
trict of  1\I sur  M which  was  not  indebted  to  liini   for  some 

benefit.  He  had  even  in  case  of  need  ailed  and  quickened  the  business 
of  the  other  districts.  Thus  he  had,  in  time  of  need,  sustained  with 
his  credit  and  with  his  own  I'unds  the  fnlle  factory  at  BoulDgne,  the  flux- 
spinning  factory  at  Fi  event,  and  the  linen  factory  at  lioubers-sur-Can- 
che,     Everywhere  the  name  of  Mr.  Madeleine  was  spoken  with  vnera- 

tion.     Arras  and  Douai  envied  the  lucky  little  city  of  M sur  ]\I 

its  mayor.  • 

The  Ju'ige  of  the  Roynl  Court  of  Douai,  who  was  holding  this  term 
of  the  Assizfs  at  Arras,  was  familiar,  as  well  as  everybody  else,  with 
this  name  so  profountlly  and  so  universally  honored.  When  the  ofl!icer, 
quietly  openina:  the  door  which  led  from  the  counsel  cimmber  to  the 
courtroom,  bent  behind  the  judge's  chair  and  handed  him  the  p^per, 
on  which  was  written  the  line  we  have  just  read,  adding:  "  Thi'x  t/en- 
tlevian.  desires  to  wi'Uiess  (he  trial;"  the  judge  made  a  hagty  movement 
of  deference,  seized  a  pen,  wrote  a  few  words  at  the  bottom  of  the  pa- 
per and  handed  it  back  to  the  officer,  saying  to  him  :  "  Let  him  enter." 

The  unhappy  man,  whose  history  we  are  relating,  had  remained  near 
the  door  nf  the  hall,  in  the  same  place  and  the  same  attitude  ss  when 
the  f'fficer  left  him.  He  heard,  through  his  thoughts,  some  one  saying 
to  him  :  "  Will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  ful'ow  me?"  ,.Tt  was  the  same 
officer  who  had  turned  his  back  upon  him  the  minute  before,  and  who 
now  bowed  fjpwn  to  the  earth  befnrc  him.  The  officer  at  the  same  timo 
handed  him  the  piper.  He  unfolded  it,  and,  as  he  happened  to  be  near 
the  lamp,  he  could  read  : 

•'The  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Assizes  presents  his  respects  to  Mr. 
Madeleine." 

He  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hands,  as  if  those  few  words  had  left 
some  stran'je  and  bit'er  taste  behind. 

He  fiiUowcd  the  officer. 

In  a  few  minutes  he. found  himself  alone  in  a  kind  of  panelled  cabi- 
net, of  a  severe  appearance,  lighted  by  two  wax  candles  placed  upon  a 
table  covered  with  green  cloth,  The  last  words  of  the  officer  wiio  had 
left  hiiu  still  rang  in  his  ear:  "Sir,  you  are  now  in  the  counsel  cham- 
ber; you  have  but  to  turn  the  brass  knob  of  that  door  and  y(»u  will  find 
yourself  in  the  court-room,  behind  the  Judge's  chair."  These  worJs 
wero  associated  in  his  thoughts  with  a  vague  remembrance  of  the  narrow 
corridors  and  dark  stairways  through  whieh  he  hud  just  pa.ssed. 

The  officer  had  left  him  alone.  The  deci.-ive  moment  had  arrived. 
He  endeavored  to  collect  his  thoughts,  but  did  not  succeed.  At  thogo 
hours  especially  when  we  have  Hore.'<t  ne<  d  of  grasping  the  sharg  realities 
of  life  do  the  threads  of  thouglit  snap  off  in  the  brain.  Ho  was  in  the 
very  place  wjiere  the  judges  deliberate  and  decide.  He  beheld  with  a 
stupid  tranrjuillity  th.it  silent  and  formidahio  room  where  so  many  ex- 
istences had  been  terminated,  whero  hi»  own  name  would  be  heard  so 
soon,  aud  which  his  dc»tiny  was  crohsing  at  this  moment.     He  looked 


178  LES    MIS^RABLES. 

at  tlie  walls,  then  he  looked  at  himself,  astonished  that  this  could  be 
thifj  cbaiubcr,  and  that  this  C(»uld  be  ho. 

He  had  oiitcn  nothing  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours;  he  was 
bruised  by  the  jolting  of  the  carriole,  but  he  did  not  foci  it;  it  seemed 
to  him  th;it  he  felt,  n(tlhin2;. 

He  examined  a  black  framj  whicli  huncj  on  tlie  wall,  and  which  con- 
tained under  plass  an  old  autograph  letter  of  Jeau  Nicolas  I'aehe,  Mayor 
of  Paris,  and  Minister,  dated,  doubtless  by  mistake,  June  Oih,  year  II., 
in  which  Pachc  scut  to  the  Tommune  the  list  of  the  tuinislers  and  depu- 
ties held  in  arrest  within  thoir  linsits.  A  spectator,  had  he  seen  and 
watched  him  then,  would  have  iniagiued,  doubtless,  that  this  letter  ap- 
pearad  very  reigarkable  to  him,  for  he  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  from  it, 
and  he  read  it  two  or  three  times.  lie  was  readinj^  without  paying  any 
attention,  aud  without  kuowiug  what  he  was  doing,  lie  was  thinking 
of  L'antinc  and  Cosette. 

Kven  while  musing,  he  turned  unconsciously,  and  his  eyes"  eneoua- 
teVed  the  brass  knob  of  the  door  which  separated  him  from  the  hall  of 
the  Assizes.  He  had  almost  f'jrgotteu  that  door.  ITis  couotenance,  at 
first  cahn,  now  fell  His  eyes  were  iixed  on  that  brass  knob,  then  he- 
came  set  and  wild,  and  little  by  little  filled  with  disn)ay.  l>rupsof 
sweat  started  out  from  his  head,  and  roIUd  down  over  his  temples. 

At  one  moment,  he  made,  with  a  kind  of  authority  united  to  rebel- 
lion, that  in<lescribable  gesture  which  means  aud  which  so  well  says: 
Willi  who  IS  (here  tuompi-l  vie?  Then  he  turned  tjuiekly,  saw  before 
him  the  door  by  which  be  had  entered^  went  to  it,  opened  it,  aud  went 
out.  He  was  no  longer  iu  that  room  ;  he  was  outfiide,  in  a  corridor,  a 
long,  narrow  corridor,  cut  up  with  steps  and  side  doors,  making  all  sorta 
of  angles,  lighted  here  and  there  by  lamps  hung  on  the  wall  similar  to 
nurse-lam])s  for  the  sick  ;  it  was  the  corridor  by  which  he  had  come. 
He  drew  breath  aud  listened  ;  no  sound  behind  him,  no  souud  before 
him  ;   he  ran  as  if  he  were  pursued.  • 

When  he  had  doubled  several  of  the  turns  of  this  passage,  he  listened 
again.  There  was  still  the  same  silence  and  the  same  sliadow  about 
him.  He  was  out  of  breath,  he  tottered,  he  leaned  again.-jt  the  wall. 
The  stone  was  cold  ;  tho  sweat  was  icy  upon  his  forehead ;  he  roused 
himself  with  a  shudder. 

Then  and  there,  alone,  standing  in  that  obscurit}-,  .treoibiing  with 
cold  and,  perhaps,  with  someihir^g  else,  he  reflected. 

He  hud  reflectod  all  night,  he  had  reflected  all  day;  he  now  heard 
but  one  voice  wiihin  him,  which  said:  ''Alas!" 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  thus  rolled  away.  Finally  he  bowed  his  head, 
pighed  with  anguish,  let  his  ar-ns  fall,  aud  retraced  his  steps.  He 
walked  slowly  and  as  if  overwhelmed.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  been 
caught  in  his  iight  and  brought  back. 

He  entered  the  (Counsel  Chamber  again.  Tho  first  thing  that  he  saw 
was  the  handle  of  the  door.  That  handle,  round  and  of  polished  brass, 
(ihone  out  before  him  like  an  ominous  star.  He  looked  at  it  as  a  lumb 
might  look  at  the  eye  of  a  tiger. 

His  eyes  could  not  move  from  it. 

From  time  to  time,  he  took  another  step  towards  the  door. 

Had  he  listened,  he  would  have  beard;  as  a  kind  of  confused  murmur^ 

•  ■ 


FANTINE.  179 

•  • 

the  noise  of  the  neighboring  ball ;  but  he  did  not  listen  and  he  did  not 
hear. 

Suddouly,  without  himself  knowing  how,  he  found  himself  near  the 
door,  he  seized  the  knob  conyulsively ;   the  door  opened. 

He  was  in  the  courtroom. 


IX. 

A   PLACE    FOR   ARRIVING   AT   CONVICTIONS. 

He  took  a,  stop,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  mechanically,  and  re- 
mained standing,  noting  what  he  paw. 

It  was  a  large  hall,  dimly  lighted,  and  noisy  and  silent  by  turna, 
where  all  the  machinery  of  a  criminal  trial  was  exhibited,  with  its 
petty,  yet  solemn  gravity,  before  the  multitude. 

At  one  end  of  the  hall,  that  at  which  he  found  himself,  heodleM 
judges,  in  threadbare  robes,  were  biting  their  finger-u-iils,  or  closing 
their  eyelids ;  at  the  other  end,  was  a  ragged  rabble;  there  were  law-' 
yers  in  all  f^orts  of  attitudes;  soldiers  with  honest  and  hard  faces;  old, 
stained  wainscoting^  a  dirty  ceiling,  tables  covered  with  serge,  which 
was  more  nearly  yellow  than  green;  doors  blackened  by  finger-marks; 
tavern  lamps,  giving  more  smoke  than  light,  on  nails  in  t!ie  panelling; 
candles,  in  brass  candlestieks,  on  the  tables;  everywhere  obscurity,  un- 
siglitliness  and  gloom  ;  and  from  all  this  there  aro-se  an  austere  and  au- 
gust impression;  for  men  felt  therein  the  presence  of  that  great  human 
thing  winch  is  called  law,  and  that  great  divine  thing  which  is  called 
justice. 

No  man  in  this  multitude  paid  any  attention  to  him.  All  eyes  con- 
verged on  a  single  point,  a  wooden  bench  placed  against  a  little  door, 
along  the  wall  at  the  left  hand  of  the  judge.  Upon  this  bench,  which 
was  lighted  by  several  candles,  was  a  man  between  two  gendarmes. 

This  was  the  man. 

He  did  not  look  for  him,  he  saw  him.  His  eyes  went  towards  him 
naturally,  as  if  they  had  known  in  advance  where  he  was 

He  thought  he  saw  himself,  older,  doubtless,  not  precisely  the  same 
in  features,  but  alike  in  attitude  and  appearance,  with  that  bristling 
hair,  with  those  wild  and  restless  eyeballs,  with  that  blouse— just  as  he 

was  on  the  day  he  entered  I) .  full  of  hatred,  and  concpaliug  in  his 

soul  this  hideous  hoard  of  frightful  thoughts  which  be  had  spent  nine- 
teen years  in  gathering  upon  the  floor  of  the  galleys. 

He  said  to  himself,  with  a  shudder:  "Great  God!  shall  I  again  come 
to  this?"  • 

This  being  appeared  at  least  sixty  years  old.  There  was  something 
indescribably  rough,  stupid  and  terrified  in  his  appearance. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door,  people  had  stoo<i  aside  to  make  room.  The 
judge  had  turned  his  head,  and  supposing  the  person  who  entered  to  be 
the  mayor  of  M sur  M ,  greeted  him  with  a  bow.  The  prose- 
cuting attornty,  who  had  seen  Madeleine  at  M hur  M ,  whither 

he  had  been  called  more  thaji  once,  by  the  duties  of  his  office,  recog- 


ISO  LBS   MIS^BABLBS. 

•  • 

nised  him  nod  bowed  likewise.  He  scarcely  perceived  th'bm.  lie  gazed 
about  him,  a  prej  to  a  sort  of  hallucitiafion. 

Judges,  clerk,  pendarmos,  a  throng  of  lieada,  cruelly  curioun — lie  bad 
seen  all  tlicso  once  before,  twenty  seven  years  u<:o.  He  hud  fallen  agjiin 
upnn  iheso  fearful  things;  the'y  were  bet'oro  him,  they  moved,  they  had 
beinp;  it  was  no  longer  an  effort  of  his  memory,  a  mirage  of  his  fancy, 
but  real  gendarmes  and  real  judges,  a  real  throng,  and  real  mcu-uf  flesh 
and  bone.  It  was  done;  he  saw  re  appearing  and  living  aguin  around 
bim,  with  all  the  frightfulncss  of  reality,  the  monstrous  visions  of  the 
past. 

All  this  was  yawning  before  bim. 

Stiiekcn  with  horror,  he  closed  bis  eyes,  and  exclaimed  from  tbo 
depths  of  hi;!  soul :  "  Never  1" 

And.  by  a  tragic  Fport  of  destiny,  which  was  agitating  all  his  ideas 
and  rendering  him  almost  insane,  it  was  another  self  before  him.  This 
luan  on  trial  was  called  by  all  around  him,  Jean  Valjcan  ! 

lie  had  before  his  eyes  an  unheard-of  vision,  a  sort  of  representation 
of  the  most  horrible  moment  of  his  life,  played  by  his  shadjw. 

All,  ever}thing  was  there — the  same  paraphernalia,  the  same  hour  of 
(he  night — almost  the  same  faces,  judge  and  as>isiant  judges,  soldiers 
and  ppeetators.  Hut  above  the  head  of  the  judge  was  a  crueilix,  a 
thing  whieh  did  not  appear  in  courtrooms  at  the  time  of  his  sentence. 
When  ho  was  tried,  God  was  not  there. 

A  chair  was  behind  him;  he  sank  into  it,  terrified  at  the  idea  that  ho 
might  be  observed.  When  seated,  be  took  advantage  of  a  pile  of  pa- 
pers on  the  judgts'  desk  to  bide  bis  face  from  the  whole  room  Ho 
could  now  see  without  being  seen.  Ho  entered  fully  into  the  .«pirit  of 
the  reality  ;  by  degrees  he  recovored  his  composure,  and  arrived  at  that 
degree  of  calmness  at  whieh  it  is  possible  to  listen. 

Mr.  IJamat.ibois  was  one  of  the  jurors. 

He  looked  fir  Javtrt,  but  did  not  see  him.  The  witnefses'  seat  was 
bidden  from  him  by  the  clerk's  table.  And  then,  as  we  have  just  eaid, 
the  hall  was  very  dimly  lighted. 

At  the  moment  of  his  entrance,  the  counsel  for  the  prisoner  was  fin- 
ishing bis  plea.  The  attention  of  all  was  excited  to  the  highest  degree; 
the  tiial  bad  been  in  progress  for  throe  hours.  During  thfso  threo 
hours,  the  spectators  bad  teen  a  man,  an  unknown,  wretched  being, 
thorough'y  stupid  or  thoroughly  artful,  gradually  bending  beneath  the 
weight  of  a  terrible  probability.  This  man,  as  is  already  known,  was. a 
vagrant  who  had  been  fouud  in  a  field,  carrying  off  a  braueh,  laden  with 
ripe  apple.*,  which  had  been'  broken  from  u  tree  in  a  nefghboring  close, 
called  the  I*ierron  inclo.sure.  Who  was  this  man  ^  An  examination 
had  been  held,  witnesses  had  been  heard,  they  had  been  uiwinimou.s, 
light  hud  been  elicited  from  every  portion  of  the  tiial.  The  prosecu- 
tion said:  "We  hare  here  not  merely  a  fruit  thief,  a  niaraurler;  wo 
liave  here,  in  our  hands,  a  bandit,  an  outlaw  who  has  broken  his  ban, 
an  old  convict,  u  most  dangerous  wretch,  u  malefactor,  called  Jean  Val- 
jeun,  of  whom  justice  has  been  long  in  pursuit,  and  who,  e'ght  years 
ago,  on  leaving  the  galleys  at  Toulon,  committed  u  highway  robbery, 
with  force  ami  arms,  upon  the  person  of  a  youth  of  Savoy.  Petit  Gor- 
▼ais  by  name,  a  cri(uo  which  is  specific^  in  Artiulo  383  of  the  Penal 


PANTINK.  181 

Code,  and  for  which  we  reserve  the  right  of  further  prosecution  when 
his  identity  shall  be  judicially  established.  He  has  now  committed  a 
new  theft.  If.  is  a  case  of  second  offence.  Convict  hina  for  the  new 
crime;  he  will  be  tried  hereafter  for  the  previous  one."  Btfore  this 
accusation,  before  the  unanimity  of  the  witnesses,  the  principal  emotion 
evinced  by  the  accu.sed  was  astonishment.  He  made  cesfurcs  and  sisna 
which  signified  denial,  or  he  gazed  at  the  ceiling.  lie  spoke  with  difS- 
culfy,  and  answered  with  embjf'rrassmeut,  but  from  head  to  foot,  his 
whole  person  denied  the  charge.  He  seemed  like  an  idiut  in  tiie  pre- 
sence of  all  these  intellects  ranged  in  battle  around  him,  and  like  a 
stranger  in  the  midst  of  this  society  by  whom  he  had  been  seizfd. 
Nevertheless,  a  most  thre.itcning  future  await^-d  him ;'  probabi  ities 
increa.sed  every  tnoniont;  and  every  spectator  was  looking  with  more 
anxiety  than  himself  for  the  calamitous  sentence  which  seemed  to  bo 
hanging  over  his  head  with  ever  increasing  surety.  One  contingency 
even  gave  a  glimpse  of  the  possibility,  beyond  the  galleys,  of  a  capital 
penalty  .".houhJ  his  identity  be  established,  and  the  Petit  (lervais  affair 
result  iu  his  conviction.  Who  was  this  man  '{  What  wa.s  the  nature  of 
his  apathy?  Was  it  imbecility  or  artifice?  Did  he  know  too  much  or# 
nothing  at  all  ?  These  were  questions  upon  which  the  spectators  took 
sides,  and  which  seemed  to  affict  the  jury.  There  was  Something  fear- 
ful and  !«ometliing  mysterious  in  tho  trial;  the  drama  was  not  merely 
gloomy,  but  it  was  obscure. 

The  cimnsel  for  the  defence  had  mad^  a  very  good  plea  in  that  pro- 
vincial language  which  long  constituted  the  eloquence  of  the  bar,  and 
which  was  forn)crly  employed  by  all  lawyers,  at  i'aris  as  well  as  at  llo- 
morantin  or  Montbrison,  but  which,  having  now  become  classic,  is  u.scd 
by  few  except  the  offi^'ial  orators  of  the  bar,  to  whom  it  is  suited  by  its 
solemn  rotundity  and  majestic  periods;  a  language  in  wliich  husband 
and  wife  are  called  sponsfx,  Paris,  the  centre  of  arts  and  civiizntion, 
the  king,  the  monnixh,  a  bishop,  a  h"Ji/  pontiff,  the  prosecuting  attor- 
ney, the  el- q lien t  inft-rprrter  "f  th"  vfnij< unce  of  the  lair,  arguments,  fhr^ 
accenln  tchirh  we  have  just  hrard,  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,  tlie  il/ustn'- 
ous  uf/c,  a  theatre,  the  tmij^le  of  ^Idpomfne,  the  reigning  family,  the 
aiKju  t  bldoil  of  our  /cinj/s,  a  concert,  n  musical  solemnity,  the  general 
in  command,  the  illustrious  warrior  who,  etc.,  studeut.s  of  theology, 
those  t<n(Ur  Levit'S,  mistakes  imputed  to  newspapers,  the  imjx/stnre 
tohich  distils  its  venom  into  the  columns  of  these  onjnns,  etc.,  etc.  Tha 
counsel  for  the  defence  had  brgun  by  expatiating  on  the  theft  of  tho 
apples, — a  thing  ill  suited  to  a  lofty  style;  but  IJenign  Bossnot  himself 
was  ouce  compelled  to  make  allusion  to  a  hen  in  the  midst  of  a  fiin?ral 
oration,  and  acquitted  himself  with  dignity.  The  coun.sel  esfabliNhod 
that  the  theft  of  the  apples  was  not  in  fwct  proved.  His  client,  wlioiii 
in  his  character  of  counsel  he  persisted  in  calling  Champmatliicu,  had 
not  bepn  seen  to  scale  the  wall  or  break  off  the  branch.  He  had  been 
arrested  in  possession  of  this  branch  (which  the  eounf<cl  preferred  to 
call  boinjh) ;  but  he  said  that  iie  had  found  it  on  the  ground.  Where 
was  tho  proof  to  the  contrary?  Undoobtedly  this  bninch  had  been 
broken  and  carried  off  after  the  scaling  of  the  wall,  then  thrown  aw«y 
by  tlw  nlarmcd  marauder  ;  undoubtedly,  there  had  been  a  thief. — IJut 
what  evidence  was  there  that  this  thief  waa  Cbampmathieu  ?     Ou« 


182  LES  mis£bable3. 

Binple  Ihinjr:  That  lie  was  formerly  a  convict.  The  counsel  would  not 
deny  thut  this  fact  uofyrtunatoly  appeart'd  to  be  fully  proved;  the  de- 
fenihiDl  had  roided  at  Favero'.les;  the  defendant  had  been  a  pruner,  the 
name  of  Champmalhieu  might  well  have  had  its  origin  in  that  of  Jean 
Muthieu ;  all  this  was  true,  and  finally,  four  witnesses  had  positively  and 
without  hosiiatinn  identified  Champmathieu  as  the  galhy  pIuvo,  Jean 
Valjean  ;  to  these  circumstances  and  this  testimony,  the  counsel  could 
oppose  nothing  but  the  denial  of  his  client,  an  interested  denial ;  but 
even  sllppo^ing  hi:n  to  Ije  the  convict  Jean  Valjean,  did  this  prove  that 
he  had  st<Hi'n  the  apples?  that  was  a  presumption  at  most,  not  a  proof. 
The  accused,  it  was  true,  and  the  counsel  "in  good  faith"  must  admit 
it,  had  adopted  "a  piistakcn  system  of  defence."  He  had  persisted  in 
denying  everything,  both  the  theft  and  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  con- 
vict. An  avowal  on  the  latter  point  would  hare  been  better  certainly, 
and  would  have  secured  to  him  the  indulgence  of  the  judges ;  the  coun- 
sel had  advised  him  to  this  cour.>.e,  but  the  defendant  had  obstinately 
refused,  expecting  probably  to  escape  punishment  entirely,,  by  admitting 
nothing,  it  was  a  mistake,  but  must  not  the  poverty  of  his  intellect  be 
«taken  into  consideration  ?  The  man  was  evidently  imbecile.  Long  suf- 
fering in  the  galleys,  long  suffering  out  of  the  galleys,  had  brutalized 
him,  etc  ,  etc.;  if  he  made  a  bad  defence,  was  this  a  reason  for  convict- 
ing him  ?  As  to  the  Petit  Gervais  affair,  the  counsel  had  nothing  to 
say,  it  was  not  in  the  case.  He  concluded  by  entreating  the  jury  ancl 
court,  if  the  identity  of  Jean  Valjean  appeared  evident  to  them,  to  ap- 
ply to  him  the  police  penalties  prescribed  for  the  breaking  of  ban,  and 
not  the  fearful  punishment  decreed  to  the  convict  found  guilty  of  a  sec- 
ond offence. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  replied  to  the  counsel  for  the  defence.     Ho 
was  violent  and  flowery,  like  most  prosecuting  attorneys.    ■ 

He  complimented  the  counsel  for  his  "frankness,"  of  which  he 
jjhrewdly  took  advantage.  He  attacked  the  accu.sed  through  all  the 
concessions  which  his  counsol  had  made.  The  coun.scl  seemed  to  admit 
that  the  accused  was  Jean  Valjean.  He  accepted  the  admission.  This 
man  then  was  Jean  Valjean.  This  fact  was  conceded  to  the  prosecution,  • 
and  could  be  no  longer  contested.  Who  was  Jean  Vuljt?anll*  Descrip- 
tion of  Jean  Valjean  :  a  monster  vomited,  etc.  The  model  of  all  sucb 
descriptions  may  be  found  in  the  story  of  Tlierameno,  which  as  tragedy 
is  useless,  but  which  does  gn»it  service  in  judicial  'eloquence  every  day. 
The  auditory  an<i  tht«  jury  "shuddered."  This  description  finished, 
(he  prosecuting  attorney  resumed  with  an  oratorical  burst,  designed  to 
excite  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Journal  de  la  Prefecture  to  the  highest 
pitch  next  morning.  "And  it' is  such  a  man,"  etc.,  etc.  A  vagationd,. 
a  mendicant,  without  means  of  existence,  etc.,  etc.  Accustomed  through 
kis  existence  to  criminal  acts,  and  profiting  little  by  his  past  life  in  the 
galleys,  as  is  proved  by  the  crime  committed  upon  Petit  Gervais,  etc.,  etc. 
It  is  such  a  man  who,  found  on  the  highway  in  the  very  act  of  theft,  a 
few  paces  from  a  wall  that  had  been  .scaled,  still  holding  in  hiR  hand  the 
object  of  his  crime,  denies  the  act  in  which  he  is  caught,  denies  thfr 
theft,  denies  tlie  escalade,  denies  everything,  denies  even  his  name,  de- 
nies even  his  identity !  Besides  a  hundred  other  proofs,  to  which  we- 
will  not  return,  he  is  identified  by  four  witnesses — Javert — the  incor- 


FANTINE.  183 

ruptible  inspector  of  police,  Javert— and  tliree  of  his  former  compan- 
ions in  disgnicfr,  the  convicts  Brevet,  Clienildieu,  and  Cochcpaille. 
What  has  he  to  oppose  to  this  overwhelming  unanimity  ?  His  dmial. 
What  depravity!  You  will  do  justice,  jrcntlemen  of  the  jury,  etc  ,  etc. 
While  the  prosecuting  attorney  was  speaking,  tlie  accused  listened  open- 
mouthed,  with  a  sort  of  astonishment,  not  uniningled  with  admiration. 
He  was  evidently  surprised  that  a  man  couhl  speak  so  well.  From  time 
to  time,  at  the  niost  "  forcible"  parts  of  the  argument,  at  those  moments 
when  eloquence,  unable  to  cont^iin  itself,  overflo\vs  in  a  stream  of  with- 
ering epithets,  and  surrounds  the  prisoner  like  a  tempest,  he  slowly 
moved  his  head  from  right  to  left,  and  frotn  left  to  right — a  sort  of  sad, 
mute  protest,  with  which  he  contuuted  himself  from  the  beginning  of 
the  argument.  Two  or  three  times  tiic  spectators  nearest  him  heard 
him  say  in  a  bw  tone:  "This  all  comes  from  not  asking  for  Mr.  Ba- 
l«up  !"  The  prosecuting  attorney  pointed  out  to  the  jury  this  air  of 
stupidity,  which  was  evidently  put  on,  and  which  denoted,  not  irabe- 
cilify,  but  address,  artifice,  and  the  habit  of  deceiving  justice;  and 
which  showed  in  its  full  light  tlic  " deep-rooted  perversity"  of  the  man. 
He  concluded  by  reserving  entirely  the  Petit  Gervais  affair,  and  de- 
manding a  sentence  to  the  full  extent  of  the  law. 

This  was,  for  this  offence,  as  will  be  remembered,  hard  labor  for  life. 

The  counsel  for  the  prisoner  rose,  comtnenccd  by  complimenting  "  the 
prosecuting  attorney,  on  his  admirable  argument,  then  replied  as  best  ho 
could,  but  in  a  weaker  tonej  the  ground  was  evidently  giving  way  un- 
der him. 


THE    SYSTEM   OF    DKNEGATI0N8. 

The  time  had  come  for  closing  the  case.  The  judge  commanded  the 
accused  to  rise,  and  put  the  usual  question  :  "  Have  you  anything  to  add 
to  your  defence  ?" 

The  man,  standing,  and  twirling  in  his  hands  a  hideous  cap  which  he 
had,  seemed  not  to  hear. 

The  judge  repeated  the  question. 

This  time,  the  man  heard,  and  iippeared  to  comprehend  He  started 
like  one  awaking  from  sleep,  cast  his  eyes  around  him,  looked  at  the 
spectators,  the  gendarmes,  his  counsil,  the  jurors,  and  the  court,  placed 
his  huge  first  on  the  bar  before  him,  looked  around  again,  and  suddenly 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  prosecuting  attoni(y,  began  to  Fpeak.  It  seemed 
from  the  manner  in  which  the  woids  eecaped  hii  lips,  incoherent,  impet- 
uous, jostling  each  other  pell-mell,  as  if  they  were  all  eager  to  find  vent 
at  the  same  time.     He  said  : 

"  I  have  this  to  say  :  That  Thave  been  a  wheelwright  at  Paris  ;  (hat 
it  was  at  Mr.  Baloup's  too.  It  is  a  hard  life  to  be  a  wheelwright,  you 
always  work  out-doors,  in  yard.**,  under  sheds  when  you  have  good  bosses, 
nevir  in  shops,  because  you  must  have  r<»om,  you  see.  In  the  winter,  it  is 
so  cold  that  you  thresh  your  arms  to  warm  them  ;  but  the  bosses  won't 
allow  that;  they  say  it  ia  a  waste  of  time.     It  is  tough  work  to  handW 


184  LES   MISKRABLE8. 

iron  when  there  is  ice  on  the  pavements.  It  wears  a  man  out  quick. 
You  get  old  when  you  are  yoniig  at  thi«  trade.  A  mm  i«  used  up  bj 
forty.  I  was  fifty-three;  I  was  pick  a  good  deal.  And  then  the  wurk- 
nien  arc  so  bud  !  When  a  poor  feMow  i.'sn't  young,  they  alwiiys  call  you 
old  bird,  and  old  boast!  1  rarncd  only  thirty  fous  a  day,  they  paid  nie 
R9  litilo  as  they  could — the  bosses  took  advmitflgo  of  my  age.  Then  I 
had  my  daughter,  who  was  ti  washerwoman  ot  the  river.  8he  earned  a 
litile  for  herstdf;  betweeu  us  two,  we  got  on;  she  had  bard  work  too. 
All  day  long  up  to  the  waist  in  a  tub,  iu  ruin,  in  snow,  with  wind  that 
cuts  your  face;  when  it  freezes,  it  is  all  the  satire,  the  washing  must  bo 
done;  there  are  folks  who  huvn't  much  linen  and  are  waiting  for  it;  if 
you  don't  wash  von  lose  your  customers.  The  planks  are  not  well 
matched,  and  the  water  falls  on  you  everywhere.  You  get  your  clothes 
wet  through  and  through  ;  that  strikes  in.  She  wa.<hed  roo  in  the  laun- 
dry of  the  Knfants-liouges,  where  the  water  comes  in  through  pipe.<». 
There  you  are  not  in  the  tub.  You  wash  before  you  under  the  pipe, 
and  rinse  behind  you  in  the  trough.  This  is  under  cover,  and  you  are 
not  60  cold.  JJut  there  is  a  hot  lye  that  is  terrible  an<l  ruins  yowr  eyes. 
She  would  coiiie  home  at  seven  o'clock  at  night,  and  go  to  bed  right 
away,  .«he  was  so  tired.  Her  husband  used  to  heat  her.  She  is  dead. 
We  wasn't  very  happy.  She  was  a  good  girl;  she  never  rtent  to  balls, 
aud  was  very  quiet.  I  remember  onp  Shrove  Tuesday  ^Iicwent  to  bed 
at  eight  o'elnck.  Look  here,  I  am  telling  the  truth.  Yoo  have  only 
to  ask  if  'tisn't  so.  A.«k  I  how  stftpid  I  am  !  Paris  is  a  gulf  Who  ia 
there  that  knows  Father  Champinathieu  ?  But  there  is  Mr.  Baloup. 
Go  and  !*ee  Mr.  Baloup.     I  don't  know  whnt  mort;  you  want  of  me  " 

The  n)an  ceased  speaking,  but  did  not  sit  down.  He  had  uttered 
these  sentences  in  a  loud,  rapid,  hojirsc,  harsh  and  guttural  tone,  with 
a  8ort  of  angry  and  savngo  sin)plicity.  Once,  he  slopped  to  bow  to 
somebody  in  the  crowd.  The  sort  of  aflirmation-s  which  he  seen)ed  to 
fling  out  haphazard,  came  from  him  like  hiccoughs,  and  he  added  tt) 
each  the  gesture  of  a  man  chopping  wood.  When  he  hud  finished,  the 
auditory  burst  into  laughter.  He  looked  at  them,  and  eecing  them 
laughing  and  not  knowing  why,  began  to  laugh  himself 

Tkat  was  an  ill  omen. 

The  judge,  a  con.-ideratc  and  kindly  man,  raised  hi.s  voice: 

He  reminded  "-(Ullemcn  of  the  jury"  that  Mr.  Hab-up,  the  former 
master  wheelwright  by  whom  the  prisoner  said  he  had  been  employed, 
had  been  summoned,  but  had  not  appeared.  He  had  become  bankrupt, 
and  could  not  be  found.  Then,  turLing  to  the  accused,  he  adjured  binj 
to  listen  to  what  he  was  about  to  say,  and  added:  "  You  are  in  a  posi- 
tion which  demands  reflecfi<.n.  The  gravest  presumptions  aro  weighing 
t;gainBt  you,  and  may  lead  to  fatal  r.  suits  Pri.^ouer,  on  your  own  behalf, 
I  question  you  a  second  time;  explain  yourself  clearly  on  these  two  points: 
First,  did  you  or  did  you  not  climb  the  wall  of  the  Pierron  close,  break 
off  the  branch  and  steal  the  apples,  that  Is  to  say,  commit  the  crime  of 
theft,  with  tho  addition  of  breaking  into  an  iuclosure?  Secondly,  Brd 
jo»  or  are  you  not  the  discharged  convict,  Jfan  Valjean  ?" 

The  prisoner  shook  his  head  with  a  knowing  look,  like  a  man  who 
TiTi(!erstands  perfectly,  and  knows  what  be  is  gf>ing  to  say.  He  opened 
ilia  mouth,  turned  towards  tho  presiding  judge,  and  said  : 


FANTINB.  .  186 


"  In  tlie  first  place 


Tiien  he  looked  at  his  cap,  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  was  silenk. 

"Prisoner,"  resumed  the  prosecuting  attorney,  in  an  austere  tone, 
"give  attention.  You  have  replied  to  nothing  that  has  been  asked  you. 
Your  agitation  condemns  you.  It  is  evident  that  your  name  is  not 
Champmathieu,  but  that  you  are  the  convict,  Jean  Valjean,  disguised 
under  the  naue  at  first,  of  Jean  Mathieu,  which  was  that  of  his  mother; 
that  you  have  lived  in  Auvcrgne ;  that  you  were  born  at  FaveroUes, 
where  you  were  a  pruner.  It  is  evident  that  you  have  stolen' ripe  ap- 
ples from  the  I'ierron  close,  with  the  addition  of  breaking  into  the  iu- 
closure.     The  gentlemen  of  the  jury  will  consider  this." 

The  accused  had  at  last  resumed  his  seat;  he  rose  abruptly  when  the 
prosecuting  attorney  had  ended,  and  exclaimed : 

"You  are  a  very  bad  man,  you,  I  mean.  This  is  what  I  wanted  to 
say.  I  couldn't  think  of  it  at  first.  I  never  stole  anything.  I  am  » 
niiin  who  don't  get  something  to  eat  every  day.  I  was  coming  from 
Ailly,  walking  alone  lifter  a  shower,  which  had  made  the  ground  all 
yellow  with  mud,  so  that  the  ponds  wore  running  over,  and  you  only 
saw  little  sprigs  of  grass  stickin^out  of  the  sand  along  the  road,  and  I 
found  a  broken  branch  on  the.  ground  with  apples  on  it;  and  I  picked 
it  up  not  knowing  what  trouble  it  would  give  me.  It  is  three  monthg 
that  I  have  been  in  prison,  being  knocked  about.  More'n  that,  I  can't 
tell.  You  talk  against  me  and  tell  nic  'answer!'  The  gendarme,  who 
is  a  good  fellow,  nudges  my  elbow,  and  whispers,  '  answer  now.'  I 
can't  ejjplain  myself;  I  never  studied;  I  am  a  poor  man.  You  arc  all 
wrong  not  to  see  that  I  didn't  steal.  I  picked  up  off  the  ground  things 
that  were  there.  You  talk  about  Jcau  Valjean,  Jean  Mathieu— ^I  don't 
know  any  such  people.  They  must  be  villagera.  I  have  worked  for 
Mr.  Baloup,  Boulevard  de  THopital.  My  name  is  Champmathieu. 
You  must  be  very  sharp  to  tell  me  where  I  was  born.  I  don't  know 
myself.  Every  body  can't  have  bouses  to  be  born  in ;  that  would  be 
too  handy.  I  think  my  father  and  mother  were  strollers,  but  I  don't 
know.  When  I  wag  a  child  they  called  me  Little  One;  now,  they  call 
me  Old  Man.  They're  my  Christian  names.  Take  them  as  you  like. 
I  have  been  in  Auvergne,  I  have  been  at  Faverolles.  Bless  me  !  can't 
a  man  have  been  in  Auvergne  and  Faverolles  without  having  been  at 
the  galleys?  I  tell  you  I  never'stnle,  and  that  I  am  Father  Champma- 
thieu. I  Jjave  been  at  Mr.  Baloup's;  I  livCd  in  his  house.  I  am  tired 
of  your  everlasting  nonsense.  What  is  every  body  after  me  for  like  a 
mad  dog  ?" 

The  prosecuting  attorney  was  still  standing ;  be  addressed  the  judge  : 

"  Sir,  in  the  presence  of  the  confused  but  very  adroit  dcnegatiou.s  of 
the  accused,  who  endeav<jrs  to  pass  for  an  idiot,  but  will  not  succeed  in 
it — we  will  prevent  him — we  request  that  it  may  please  you  and  the  . 
court  to  call  again  within  the  bar,  the  convicts.  Brevet,  Cochepaille  and 
Chenildieu,  and  police-inspector  Javei't,  and  to  submit  them  to  a  final 
interrogation,  concerning  the  identity  of  the  accused  with  the  convict, 
Jean  Valjean.'' 

"  I  must  remind  the  prosecuting  attorney,"  said  the  presiding;  judge, 

"that  polico-in.«pcctor  Javcrt,  ro-callrd  by  his  duties  to  the  chief  totm 

■  of  a  noigh boring  district,  left  the  hall,  and  the  city  also,  as  soon  ae  him 

13 


X66  LES    MISKRABLE8. 

teetimnny  was  taken.     We  pranted  bim  this  prrmission,  with  the  con- 
tent of  I  he  prnf.(>cuting  attorney  and  the  counsel  of  the  acrusi-d." 

"True,"  replied  the  prosrcuting  attorney;  "in  the  ahsence  of  Mr. 
Jarert,  [  think  it  a  duty  to  recall  to  the  gfnilemen  of  the  jury  what  be 
•aid  here  a  few  huui.s  ago.  Javert  is  an  estimable  man,  who  dots  honor 
to  inft-rior  but  important  functions,  by  hi.s  rigorous  and  strict  probity. 
These  are  the  terms  in  wliuh  he  testified  :  '  I  do  not  »von  noed  moral 
preyuojptions  and  material  proof;)  to  contradict  the  denials  of  the  ac- 
ca>t'd.  I  recognize  him  pcrfm-t'y.  Thi.>^  man's  name  is  not  Chauipma- 
tbi»  u  ;  he  is  a  convict,  Jean  Valji'an,  very  hard,  and  much  feared  He 
was  liberated  at  the  expiration  of  bis  tern),  but  with  extien)e  regret. 
He  cerveJ  out  nineteen  years  at  hard  labor  for  burglary ;  five  or  sir 
times  he  attempted  to  escape.  Besides  the  Petit  Oervais  and  IMerron 
robberies,  I  suspect  him  also  of  a  robbrry  committed  on  his  highness, 

the  lute   liishop  of  D .     I  often  saw   him   when   1  was  adjutant  of 

the  galley  guard  at  Toulon.     1  repeat  it;   I  recognize  him  perfectly'" 

This  deelaratitm,  in   terms  so  precise,  appeared   to  produce  a  strong 
impression  «rpon   the  public  and  jury.     The  prosecuting  attorney  con- 
cluded by  insisting  that,  in   the  ab-ciu^  of  Javert,  the  three  witnesses,' 
Brevet,  Chenildieu  and  Coehepaille,  should  be  he  beard  anew,  and  sol- 
emnly interrogated. 

The  judge  gave  an  order  to  an  officer,  and  a  moment  afterwards  the 
door  of  the  witness-room  opened,  and  the  officer,  accompanhd  by  a  gen- 
darme ready  to  lend  asf'istaoce,  led  in  the  convict  Brevet  The  audience 
was  in  breathless  suspense,  and  all  hearts  palpitated  as  if  they  coniaincd 
but  a  single  soul. 

The  old  convict  Brevet  wa.s  clad  in  the  black  and  grey  jacket  of  the 
central  prisons  Brevet  was  about  sixty  years  <ld  ;  he  had  the  face  of 
a  man  of  business,  and  the  air  of  a  rogue.  They  sometimes  go  toge- 
ther. He  had  become  something  like  a  turnkey  in  the  prison — to  which 
he  had  been  brought  by  new  misdeeds.  He  was  one  of  those  luen-of 
whom  their  euperiord  are  wont  to  say,  "He  tries  to  make  himself  use- 
ful" The  chaplain  bore  good  testimony  to  his  ri'ligious  habits.  It 
inuHt  not  be  for/r'tfen  that  this  happened  under  the  Restoration. 

"Brevet,"  said  the  judge,  "}ou  have  suflered  infamous  punishment, 
and  cannot  take  an  oath." 

Brevet  cast  down  his  eyes 

••Nevertheless,"  continued  the  judge,  "even  in  thd  man  ykora  the 
}aw  has  degraded,  there  mi<y  remain,  if  divine  justice  permit,  a  senti- 
ment of  honor  and  equity.  To  that  Kcniiment  I  appeal  in  this  decisive 
hour  H"  it  still  exist  in  you,  as  I  hope,  reflect  before  you  answer  nic; 
Qonsider  on  the  one  hand  this  man,  whom  a  w<jrd  from  you  may  destroy; 
oo  the  other  hand,  justice,  which  a  word  from  y>\i  may  enlighten.  The 
moment  U  a  solemn  one,  and  there  is  still  time  to  retract  if  you  think 
yourself  mistak<  n.  Prisoner,  rise.  Brevet,  look  well  upon  the  pri- 
aooer  ;  collect  your  remembrances,  and  say,  on  your  soul  and  conscience, 
whether  you  still  recognize  this  man  as  your  former  comrade  in  the  gal- 
leys, Jean  Valjean." 

Brevet  looked  at  the  pris'^nor,  then  turned  again  to  the  court. 

••  Yes,  your  honor,  I  was  first,  to  recognize  him,  and  still  do  so.  This 
Ban  u  Jeao  Valjean,  who  came  to  TouloD  in  1796,  and  left  in  1815.     I 


FANTINB.  187 

0 

kft  a  year  after.  He  looks  like  a  brute  now,  but  he  must  have  grown 
Btupid  wirh  age;  at  the  galleys  he  was  Bullen.  I  recognize  him  now, 
positively." 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  judge.     Prisoner,  remain  stafiding." 

Clu-nildieu  was  brought  in,  a  convict  for  life,  as  w.is  shown  by  his  red 
cloak  and  grctMi  cap.  lie  was  undergoing  hi.s  puni^bment  in  the  galleys 
of  Toulon,  whence  he  had  boen  brouglit  fur  this  occasion.  He  was  a 
little  man,  about  fifty  }'ears  old,  active,  wrinkled,  lean,  yellow,  brazen, 
restless,  with  a  sort  of  sickly  feeb'eness  in  his  limbs  and  whole  punson, 
and  immense  force  in  his  eye.  Ills  companions  in  the  galleys  had  nick- 
named hiin  Je-nie-DifU  * 

The  judge  addressed  nearly  the  same  words  to  him  as  to  Brevet. 
When  he  reminded  him  that  his  infamy  had  deprived  him  of  the  right 
to  take  an  oath,  Chonildivu  raised  his  head  and  looked  the  spectators  ib 
the  face.  The  judge  requested  him  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  asked 
him,  as  he  had  Brevet,  whether  he  still  recognized  the  prisoner. 

(  htnildicu  burst  out  laughing. 

."Gad!  do  I  recognize  him!  we  were  five  yearp  cfh  the  Sftuie  chain. 
You're  sulky  with  me,  are  yi^^^ld  boy?" 

"Sitdiiwn,"  said  the  judjre^ 

The  officer  brought  in  Oochepaillc  ;  this  other  convict  fof  life,  brought 
from  the  galleys  and  dressed  in  red  like  Cheuildieu,  was  a  peasant  fiom 
Lourdes,  and  a  semi  bear  of  the  Pyrenees.  He  had  tended  flocks  in 
the  mountains,  and  from  a  shepherd  had  glided  into  a  biigand.  Coche- 
paille  was  not  less  uncnuth  than  the  accused,  and  appeared  still  giore 
Btupid.  .  He  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  men  whom  nature  turns  out 
as  wild  boasts,  and  society -finishes  up  into  galley  slaves. 

The  judge  attempted  to  move  him  by  a  few  serious  and  palhetio 
words,  and  asktcT  him,  as  he  had  the  otheis,  whether  he  still  recognized 
without  hesitation  or  difficulty  th^  man  standing  before  him. 

"  It  is  Jean  Valjean,"  said  Cochepaille.  "  The  same  they  called 
Jean-the  Jack,  he  was  so  strong." 

E'lch  of  the  affirmations  of  these  three  men,  evidently  sincere  and  in 
good  fuith,  had  excited  in  the  audience  a  murmur  of  evil  augury  f^r  the 
accused — avUiUKmur  which  increased  in  force  and  continuiinoe,  every 
time  a  new  dechiratiou  was  added  to  the  preciding  one.  The  prisoner 
himself  listened^  to  them  wiih  that  astonished  countenan -e  which,  ac- 
cording to  'he  prosecution,  was  his  principal  means  of  deK.nce  At  the 
first,  tlie  gendarmes  by  his  tide  heard  him  mutter  between  hi.s  teeth; 
"  Ah,  Will !  there  is  one  of  them  1"  After  the  second,  he  ."-aid  in  a 
lou'ler  tone,  with  atl  air  almost  of  satisfaction:  "Good  !"  At  the  third, 
he  exclaimed,  "Famous!" 

The  judge  addressed  bim  : 

"  Prisoner,  you  have  listened.     What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

He  replied  : 

**  [  say  —  famous  !" 

A  buzz  ran  through  the  crowd  and  lAmost  inyaded  the  jury.  It  waa 
evident  that  the  man  was  lost. 

"Officers,"  said  the  judge,  "  enforce  order.  J  am  about  to  sum  dp 
the  cifte." 

*  Jt  nit-iitu,  ID  French,  ncana:  I  deny  Ood,' 


188  LES    MISKRABL88. 

At  this  iDomcot  there  was  a  movement  near  the  judge.  A  Toice  was 
beard  ezclaimiDg : 

"  Brevet,  Chonildieu,  Cocbepaille,  look  (bis  way  I" 

So  lamentable  %pd  terrible  was  this  voice,  that  those  who  heard  it, 
felt  iheir  blood  run  cold.  All  eyes  turned  towards  the  spot  whence  it 
O&me.  A  man,  who  had  been  sitting  among  the  privibgcd  epeCtatora 
behind  the  court,  had  riwen,  pushed  open  the  low  door  which  separated 
the  tribunal  from  the  bar,  and  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  hall. 
The  judge,  the  prosecuting  attorney,  Mr.  Bamatubois,  twenty  persona 
recognized  him,  and  exclaimed  at  once  : 

"  Mr.  Madeleine  I" 


XI. 

CnAMP.MATBIEU    MOUE    AND    MORE   ASTONISHED. 

It  was  hft,  indeed.  The  clerk's  lamp  lighted  up  his  face.  He  held 
kis  hat  in  hand;  there  was  no  disordeji^^  bis  dress;  his  overcoat  was 
carefully  buttoned.  He  wa.s  very  pa^^rad  trembled  slightly.  His 
hair,  already  grey  when  he  came  to  Arras,  was  now  perfectly  white.  It 
kad  becouio  so  <luring  the  hour  that  ho  had  been  there.  All  eyes  were 
strained  towards  him. 

The  sensation  was  indescribable.  There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation 
in  tlje  auditory.  The  voice  had  been  so  thrilliug,  the  man  standing 
there  appeared  so  calm,  that  at  first  nobody  could  comprehend  it..  They 
asked  who  had  cried  out.  Thej»  could  not  believe  that  this  trahquil 
man  had  uttered  that  fearful  cry. 

This  indecision  lasted  but  few  seconds.  •  Before  eveh  the  judge  and 
prosecuting  attorney  could  say  a  word,  before  the  gendarmes  and  officLTa 
oould  make  a  sign,  the  man.  whom  all  up  to  this  moment  c-alUd  Mr. 
Madeleine,  had  advanced  towards  the '  witnesses,  Coofcepaille,  Brevet 
and  Chcnildicu. 

"  Do  you  recognize  me?" 'said  he. 

All  three  stood  confounded,  and  indicated  by  a  shake  of  the  head 
that  they  did  not  know  hiuj.  Cochcpaille,  intimidated,  gave  the  mili-- 
tary  salute.  Mr.  Madeleine  turned  towards  the  jurors  and  court,  and 
said  in  a  mild  ivoicc  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  release  the  accused.  Your  Honor,  order 
my  arrest.  Ho  is  not  the  man  whom  you  seek ;  it  is  I.  I  am  Jean 
Valjean." 

Not  a  breath  etirrod.  To  the  first  commotion  of  astonishment,  had 
succeeded  a  sepulchral  silence.  That  species  of  religious  awe  was  felt 
in  the  hall  which  thrills  the  multitude  at  the  accomplishment  of  a  grand 
action. 

Ncvertbtless,  the  face  of  the  judge  was  marked  with  sympathy  and 
sadness;  he  exchanged  glances  \^th  the  prosecuting  attorney,  and  a  few 
whispered  words  with  tue  assistant  judges.  He  turned  to  the  specta- 
tors and  asked  in  a  tone  which  was  understood  by  all : 

''Is  there  a  physician  here?"  « 

The  prosecuting  attorney  continued  : 


FANTINE.  189 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  the  strange  and  unexpected  incident  which 
disturbs  the  audience,  inspires  us,  as  well  as  yourselves,  with  a  Feeling 
which  we  have  no  need  to  express.  You  all  know,  at  least  by  reputa- 
tion, the  Honorable  Mr.   Madeleine,  Mayor  of  M- sur  M .     If 

there  be  a  physician  in  tire  audicnco,  we  unite  with  his  Honor  the  Judge 
in  entreating  hiiu  to  be  kind  enough  t(f  lend  his  assistance  to  Mr.  Made- 
leine and  conduct  him  to  his  rosidence." 

Mr  Madeleine  did  not  permit  the  prosecuting  attorney  to  finish,  but 
interrupted  him  with  a  tone  full  of  gentleness  and  authority.  These 
are  the  words  he  uttered ;  we  give  them  literally,  as  they  were  written 
down  immediately  after  the  trial,  by  one  of  the  witnesses  of  the  scene — 
as  they  still  ring  in  the, ears  of  those  who  heard  them,  now  nearly  forty 
years  ago. 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Prosecuting  Attorney,  but  T  am  not  mad.  You 
shall  see.  You  were  on  the  point  of  committing  a  great  mistake;  re- 
lease that  man.  I  am  accomplishing  a  duty;  I  am  the  unhappy  con- 
vict. I  \m  the  only  one  who  sees  clearly  here,  and  I  tell  you  the  truth. 
What  I  do  at  this  moment,  God  beholds  from  on  hirrh,  and  th;it  is  suffi- 
cient. You  can  take  me,  since  I,  an  here.  Nevertheless,  I  have  done 
my  best.  I  have  disguised  myself  under  another  name,  I  have  become 
rich,  I  have  become  a  mayor,  I  have  desired  to  enter  again  among  hon- 
est men  It  seems  that  tliis  cannot  be.  In  short,  there  are  many 
things  which  I  cannot  tell.  I  shall  not  relate  to  you  the  story  of  my 
life;  some  day  you  will  know  it.  I  ^id  rob  the  Bishop — that  is  true; 
I  did  rr>b  Petit  Gervais — that  is  true.  They  were  right  in  telling  yoa 
that  Jean  Valjean  wfts  a  wicked  wretch.  13ut  all  the  blame  may  not 
belong  to  him.  Listen,  your  Honors:  a  man  so  abased  as  I,  has  no  re- 
monstrance to  make  with  Providence,  nor  advice  to  give  to  .society; 
but,  mark  you,  the  infamy  from  which  I  have  sought  to  rise  is  perni- 
cious to  men.  The  galleys  make  the  galley-slave.  Receive  this  in 
tindness,  if  you  will.  Before  thp  galleys,  I  was  a  poor  peasant,  unin- 
telligent, a  species  of  idiot;  the  galleys 'changed  me.  I  was  stupid,  I 
became  wicked ;  I  was  a  log,  I  became  a  firebrand.  Later,  I  wos  saved 
by  indulgence  and  kindness,  as  I  had  been  lost  by  severity.  But,  par- 
don, you  cannot  ^comprehend  what  I  say.  You  will  find  in  my  house, 
among  the  ashes  of  the  fife-place,  the  forty-sous  piece  of  which,  eeveo 
years  ago,  I  robbed  Petit  Gervais.  I  have  nothing  more  to  add  Take 
me.  Great  God!  the  pro.secuting  attorney  shakes  his  head.  You  say, 
'Mr.  Madeleine  has  gone  mad;'  you  do  not  believe  me!  This  is  hard 
to  be  bornp.  Do  not  condemn  that  man,  at  leasts  What  I  these  men 
do  not  know  me  I  Would  that  Javert  were  here.  lie  would .recogniae 
me!" 

Nothing  could  express  the  kindly  yet  terrible  melancholy  of  the  toD4 
which  accompanied  these  words. 

He  tnrned  to  the  three  convicts : 

"  Well !  I  recognize  you.  Brevet,  do  you  remember — " 

He  paused,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  said  : 

"  Do  you  remember  those  checkered,  knit  suFpendcrs  that  you  bad  in 
the  galleys?" 

Bievet  started  as  if  struck  with  surprise,  and  gazed  wildly  at  bim 
from  Iiead  to  foot.     He  continued  : 


190    '  LE8    MIS^RABLKS. 

*'Chenildieu,  purnamed  bj  vourself  Je-nie-DIcu,  the  whole  of  your 
left  shoulder  Las  been  burntd  deeply,  from  lijing  it  one  day  on  a  cha- 
fiog-dirh  full  of  embers,  to  efface  the  three  letters  T.  F.  P  ,  which  yet 
are  etill  to  be  ««< en  there.     Answer  me,  is  this  true?" 

"  It  is  true!"  said  Chenildieu. 

He  turned  to  Cochepaille:      • 

•*  Cochcpaiile,  you  have  on  your  left  arm,  near  where  you  have  been 
bled,  a  date  put  in  blue  letters  wiih  burnt  powder.  It  i§  the  date  of 
the  lai'ding  of  the  Emperor  at  Cannes,  March  1st,  1815.  Lift  up  your 
eleevc" 

CochepaiMe  lifted  up  his  sleeve ;  all  eyes  around  hiiu  were  turned  to 
his  naked  arm.     A  gendarme  brou5ht  a  lamp  ;   the  date  was  there. 

The  unhappy  man  turn'.'d  towards  the  audience  anil  the  court  with  a 
smile,  the  thought  of  which  still  rends  the  hearts  of  those  who  wit- 
nessed it.  It  was  the  smile  of  triumph  ;  it  was  also  the  smile  of 
despair. 

"  You  sec  clearly,"  says  he,  "that  I  am  Jean  Valjean." 

There  were  no  longer  either  judges,  or  accusers,  or  gendarmes  in  the 
hall;  there  were  only  6xed  eyes  uiii^^M^ng  hearts.  N<>body  remem- 
bered longer  the  part  which  he  had^|Hlay ;  the  prosecuting  attorney 
forgot  that  he  was  (here  to  prosecute,  tne  judge  that  he  was  t^ere  to 

S reside,  the  counsel  fur  the  defence  that  he  was  there  to  defend, 
trangc  to  say  no  question  was  put,  no  authority  intervened  It  is  the 
peculiarity  of  sublime  spectacles  tluit  they  take  possession  yf  every  soul, 
and  make  of  every  witness  a  spectator.  Nobody,  perhaps,  was  posi- 
tively conscious  of  what,  he  experienced;  and,*  undoubtedly,  n 'body 
said  to  hini'jelf  that  hj  there. beheld  the  effu'gence  of  a  great  ligbt,  yet 
all  fi-lt  dazzled  at  heart 

It  was  evident  that  Jean  Valjran  was  before  thc'ir  eyes.  That  fact 
ehone  forth.  The  appearance  of  this  man  hadi  been  enough  fully  to 
clear  up  the  case,  so  obscure  a  moment  before.  Without  need  of  any 
further  explanation,  the  multitude,  as  by  a  sort  of  electric  revelation, 
ooniprehended  instantly,  and  at^a  single  glance,  this  simple  and  mafjnifi- 
cent  story  of  a  man' giving  himself  up  that  another  might  not  be  con- 
demned in  his  place.  .  The  details,  the  hesitation,  the  ^slight  reluctance 
possible  were  lost  in  this  imnien>ie,  luminous'fact. 

It  was  an  impicK.>iun  which  quickly  passed  over,  but  for  the  moment 
it  was  irresistible. 

♦'  I  will  not  disturb  the  proceeding  further,"  continued  Jean  A'^aljean. 
"I  am  going,  since  I"  am  not  arrested.  1  have  many  things  to  do.  The 
pro.seciititig  attorney  knows  where  I  am  going,  and  will  have  me  arrested 
when  he  ciiooses." 

He  walked  towards  the  outer  door.  Not  a  voice  was  raised,  not  ap 
arm  Rtretched  olit  to  prevent  him.  All  stood  aside.  There  was  at  this 
moment  an  indescribable  divinity  within  him  which  makes  iIk'  multi- 
tude fall  back- and  make  way  before  a  man.  He  passed  through  the 
throng  with  hIow  steps.  It  was  never  known  who  opeueil  the  door,  but 
it  is  certain  that  the  door  was  open  when  he  came  to  it.  On  reaching  it 
'   he  turned  and  said  : 

**  Mr.  Prosecuting  Attorney,  T  remain  at  your  di.sposal." 

He  then  addressed  himself  to  the  auditory : 


FANTINE.  191 

"You  all,  who  are  here,  think  mo  worthy  of  pity,  do  you  no^?  Groat 
God!  when  I  think  of  ^flhat  I  have  been  on  ihe  point  of  doinor,  I  tliiok 
myself  w.rthy  of  envy.      Still,  wouIlI   that  all  this  had  not  happened  T 

lie  went  out,  and  the  door  closed  as  it  had  opened,  for  those  who  do 
deeds  sovereignly  great  are  always  sure  of  being  served  by  aoinebody  in« 
the  multitude. 

Less  than  an  hour  afterwards,  the  verdict  of  the  jury  discharged  from 
all  accusation  the  man  called  Chanjpinatliieu  ;  and  Cfiainpmiithieu,  set  at 
liberty  firtliwitli,  went  his  way  stupuhed,  thinking  all  men  mad,  and  un- 
derstaoding  nothing  of  this  vision. 


is 0  0 It   IBiQfjtf). 
COUNTER-STROKE. 

mi- 

IN    Wn.\T    MIRROR    MR.    MADELEINE   LOOKS    AT    III8    HAIR. 

Day  began  to  d'lwn.  Faufine  had  had  a  feverish  and  sleepless  night, 
yet  full  of  happy  visions;  she  fvll  ash'cp  at  daybreak.  Sister  Simplice, 
who  had  watohvd  with  her,  took  advantage  of  this  slumber  to  go  and 
prepare  a  new  potion  of  quinine  The  good  sister  had  been  for  a  few 
ni.nnents  in  tiie  laboratory  of  the  infirmary,  binding  over  her  vials  and 
drugs,  looking  at  them  very  closely  on  account  of  the  mist  which  tbtt 
dawn  casts- over  all  objects,  when  suddenly  she  turned  her  h'ad,  and  ut- 
tered a  faint  cry.  Mr.  .>Jadeleinc  stood  before  her.  He  had  just  come 
in  silentlv. 

"You,  Mr.  Mayor!"  she  exclaimed. 

"How  is  this  poor  wou)an  T'   he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Better  just  now.      But  we  have  been  vt^ry  anxious  indeed." 

She  explaini^d  what  had  happened,  that  Fautine  had  beeu  very  ill  th« 
night  before,  b»it  was  now  better,  because  slfe  believed  that  the  Mayor 
had  gone  to  Montftrmeil  for  her  child  *  The  sister  dared  not  (|uestiott 
the  Mayor,  buc  she  saw  cleanly  from  his  manner  that  he  had  not  com* 
from  that  place. 

"That  is  well,"  said  he.     "You  did  right  not  to  deceive  her." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  sister,  "  but  you,  Mr.  Mayor,  when  she  sees  you 
without  her  child,  what  shall  we  tell  herr' 

He  reflected  fur  a  moment,  then  aaid  : 

*.*God  will  inspire  us." 

"  But  wc  cannot  tell  her  a  lie,"  murmured  the  sister,  in  a  smothered 
tone. 

The  broad  daylight  streamct^  into  the  room,  and  lighted  up  the  fao* 
of  Mr.  Madeleine. 

The  si.st'-r  happened  to  raise  her  oyea.  • 

"Oh  heaven,  Mr.  Mudoleine,"  bhe  exclaimed.  "What  has  befallen 
you?     Your  hair  is  all  white!  ' 


192  LE8    MIsfiRABLBS. 

"White!"  Hoid  he. 

"Sister  Siroplice  had  no  mirror;  she  rumraagod  in  a  case  of  instru- 

iBenf.",  and   found  ti  little  plass  which   the  physician  of  the  infirmary 

ased  to  discover  whether  the  breath  had  ld*t  the  body  of  a  patient.     Mr. 

■  Madeleine  took  the  gla.«8,  looked  at  his  hair  in  it,  and  said,  "  Indeed  !" 

He  spoke  the  word  with  indiffironce,  as  if  thinking  of  something  e\se. 

The  sister  felt  chilled  by  an  unknown  something,  of  which  she  caught 
A  glimpse  in  all  this. 

He  a.<l^d  :  "Can  I  see  her  ?" 

"  Will  not  the  Mayor  bring  back  her  child  ?','  asked  the  sister,  scarcely 
daring  to  venture  a  question.   • 

"Certainly,  but  two  or  three  days  are  necessary." 

"If  she  does  not  see  the  Mayor  here,"  continued  the  sister  timidly, 
"she  will  not  know  that  he  has  returned}  it  will  bo  easy  for  her  to  have 
patience,  and  when  the  child  comes,  she  will  think  naturally  that  the 
Mayor  ha?  just  arrived  with  her.  Then  we  will  not  have  to  tell  her  a 
falsehood." 

Mr.  Madeleine  seemed  to  reflect  for  a  few  momeuts,  then  said  with 
his  9nlm  gravity  :  ^|^ 

"  No,  my  sister,  I  must  see  her.     mPnap^  I  have  not  much  time." 

The  nun  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  "  perhap.s,"  which  gave  an  ob- 
BCure  and  lingular  significance  to  the  words  of  the  Mayor.  She  an- 
BWered,  lowering  her  eyes  and  voice  respectfully: 

"  In  that  case,  she  is  asleep,  but  you  can  go  in." 

He  made  a  few  remarks  about  a  do(»r  that  shut,  with  difficulty,  the 
noise  of  which  might  awaken  the  sick  woman ;  then  entered  the  cham- 
ber of  Fantine,  approached  her  bed,  and  openeil  the  curtains.  She  was 
Bleeping.  Her  breath  came  from  her  chest  with  that  tragic  sound  which 
is  peculiar  to  these  diseases,  and  which  rends  the  heart  of  unhappy 
mothers,  watching  the  slumbers  of  their  fated  children,  liut  this  la- 
bored perspiration  scarcely  disturbed  an  ineffable  serenity,  which  over- 
ahadowi'd  her  countenance,  and  transfigured  li(fr  in  her  sleep.  Her 
palior  had  become  whiteness,  and  her  cheeks  were  glowing.  Her  long, 
fair  eyelashes,  the  only  beauty  left  to  her  of  her  maidenhood  and  youth, 
quivered  as  they  lay  closed  upon  her  check.  Her  whole  person  trem- 
bled as  if  with  the  flutterilig  of  wings  which  were  felt,  but  could  not  be 
eeen,  and  which  socmcd  about  to  unfold  and  bear  her  away.  To  see  her 
ihus,  no  one  could  have  believed  that,  her  life  was  despaired  of  She 
looked  more  as  if  about  to  soar  away  than  to  die. 

The  stem,  when  the  hand  is  stretclieil  out  to  pluck  the  fl  iwer,  quiv- 
ers, ami  seems  at  once  to  shrink  back,  and  to  present  itself.  The  human 
body  has  something  of  thi-!  trepidation  at  the  moment  when  the  m,yste- 
rious  fingers  of  death  are  about  to  g.ither  the  soul. 

Mr.  Madeleine  remained  for  some  time  motionless  near  the  bed,  look- 
ing by  ttirns  at  the  patient  and  the  crucifix,  as  he  had  done  two  months 
.before,  on  the  day  when  he  eame  for  the  first  time  to  see  her  in  this 
Mylura.  They  were  still  there,  both  in  the  same  attitude,  she  sleeping, 
be  praying ;  only  now,  after  these  two  moilths  had  rolled  away,  her  hair 
was  grey  and  his  was  white. 

Tlie'sJstei-  had  not  entered  with  him.     He  stood  by  the  bed,  with  his 


FANTINE.  ■     193 

finger  on  his  lips,  as  if  there  were  sorae  one  in  the  room  to 'silence.     She 
opened  her  eyes,  saw  him,  and  said  tranquilly,  with  a  smile: 
"And  Cosette?" 


11. 

FANTINE    HAPPY. 

She  did  not  start  with  surprise  or  joy;  she  was  joy  itpelf.  The  sim- 
ple question:  "  And' Cosette?"  was  asked  with  such  deep  faith,  with  so 
much  certainty,  with  so  complete  an  absence  of  disquiet  or  doubt,  that 
be  could  find  no  word  in  reply.  '  She  continued: 

"I  know  that  you  were  there;  I  was  asleep,  but  I  saw  yoy.  I  have 
seen  you  for  a  long  time;  I  have  followed  you  with  my  eyes  the  whole 
night.  You  were  in  a  halo  of  glory,  and  all  manner  of  celestial  forms 
were  hovering  around  you!" 

He  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  crucifix. 

"But  tell  me,  where  is  Cos^te  ?"  she  resumed.  "Why  not  put  her 
on  my  bed  that  I  might  see  heWhe  instant  I  woke  ?  ' 

He  answered  something  mechanically,  which  he  could  never  after- 
wards recall. 

Happily,  the  physician  had  come,  and  had  been  apprised  of  this.  He 
came  to  the  aid  of  Mr.  Madeleine. 

"  My  child,"  'said  he,  "  be  calm,  your  daughter  is  here." 

The  eyes  of  Famine  beamed  with  joy,  and  lighted  up  hor  whole 
countenance.  She  clasped  her  bands  with  an  expression  full  of  the 
most  violent  and  most  gentle  entreaty:         * 

"Oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  "bring  her  to  me!" 

Touching  illusion  of  the  mother!  Cosette  was  still  to  her  a  little 
child  to  be  carried  in  the  arms.        . 

"Not  yet,"  continued  the  physician,  ""not  at  this  moment.  You 
have  some  fever  still.  The  sight  of  your  •child  will  agitate  yon,  and 
make  you  worse.     We  must  cure  you  first." 

She  interrupted  him  impetoously. 

"  But  I  am  cured  !  I  tell  you  I  am  cured!  Is  this  physician  a  fool  ? 
I  will  see  my  child!" 

"You  see  how  you  are  carried  away,"  said  the  physician.  "So  long 
as  you  are  in  this  state,  I  cannot  let  you  have  your  child.  It  is  not 
enough  to  see  her,  you  must  live  for  her.  When  you  are  reasonable,  I 
will  bring  her  to  you  myself." 

The  poor  moth(;r  i>owed  her  head. 

"Sir,  1  ask  your  p-irdnn.  I  sincerely  ask  your  pardon.  One^  I 
would  not-  have  spoken  as  I  have  now,  but  so  many  misfortunes  hrnc 
befallen  me  that  somethnes  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying.*  I  un-lur 
stand,  you  fear  excitement;  I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  wish,  but  I  am 
sure  that  it  will  not  harm  me  to  «ee  my  daughter.  I  see  her  now,  1 
have  not.  taken  my  eyes  from  her  since  last  night  Let  ihem  bring  her 
to  me  now,  and  I  will  just  speak  to  her  very  gently  That  is  all.  Is 
it  not  very  natural  that  I  shdiild  wish  to  see  my  child,  when  they  have 
been  to  !^lontfcrmeil  on  purpose  to  bring  her  to  mcf     I  am  not  aogry. 


194  LES    MIS^RABLRS. 

I  know  that  I  am  pnJng  to  be  very  happy.  All  oifrht,  I  saw  fijrurcs  io 
whiii',  (;iiiilin^  on  me  As  soon  us  the  diKJtnr  pleases,  he  can  bring  ('o- 
setle  My  lever  is  gone,  for  I  uiu  cured;  I  feel  ttiat  (here  is  warcely 
anything  the  mutter  with  nie ;  but  I  will  aut  as  if  I  were  ill,  and 
not  Mir  S'»  as  to  please  the  ladies  here  When  they  sec  that  I  alu  calm, 
they  will  say:  "^You  must,  give  her  the  child.'  " 

Mr.  .Madeleine  w-a.s  .•^itriiig  in  a  tli.iir  l>y  the  piile  of  the  bed.  She 
tarnc  i  tow.nds  him,  and  made  visible  effurts  to  uppi-ar  calm  and  "very 
good,"  as  she  ><aid.  fn  that  weikness  of  di-oasu  wliith  rL'sembl.s  child- 
hood, so  that,  seeing  her  so  peaceful,  there  ^hould  be  no  objection  to 
briniriiig  her  Cosette.  Nevertheless,  although  re.'^iraining  ber-self,  she 
could  not  help  addressing  a  thousand  questions  to  .Mr.  .^lHdeleine. 

•'  D'd  you  have  a  plea.sant  journry,  .Nlr  .Mayor?  Oh  !  how  good  you 
have  been  to  go  for  her!  Tell  me  only  how  she  is!  Did  she  biar  the 
journey  well?  Ah!  she  will  not,  know  me.  In  all  this  timfe,  she  has 
forgotten  in'%  poor  kitten !  Children  have  no  memory.  They  are  like 
birds  To-d.iy  they  see  one  thing,  and  to-morrow  another,  and  remem- 
ber nothing  Tell  me  only,  were  her  clothes  ch-an  ?  Did  tho.se  The- 
nardiers  keep  her  neat?  How  did  th^L  feed  her?  Oh,  if  you  knew 
how  I  have  sufft-red  in  asking  my.self  a^hese  fhing.s  in  the  time  <d'  my 
wretchedness!  Now,  it  is  past.  I  am  hippy  Oh!  how  I  want  to 
see  her!  Mr.  Mayor,  did  you  thiiik  her  pretty?  la  not  my  daughter 
beautiful  ?  You  must  have  been  very  cold  in  the  diligence  ?  (Aiuld 
they  not  brin^  her  here  for  one  little  ntoujcnt  ?  they  iiii^ht  take  her 
away  immediately.     Say  !  you  are  master  here,  arc  }uu  willing?" 

He  look  her  hand.  "Cosette  is  beautiful,"  said  he.  'H'osetfe  is 
well;  you  .*liall  see  her  soon,  but  be  quit  t.  You  talk  too  fast;  and 
then  you  throw  your  arms  ffwl  of  bed,  wliicli  makes  you  cough." 

In  fact,  coughing  fits  interrupted  Fanline  at  alino>t  every  word. 

She  did  not  murmur;  she  feared  that  by  too  eager  entreaties  she  had 
weakened  the  confidence  which  she  wished  to  inspire,  and  began  to  talk 
about  indifferent  subjects     • 

"  Montfermeil  is  a  pretty  place,  is  it  not?  In  summer  people  po 
there  on  pleasure  parties.  Do  the  Thenardiers  do  a  good  bu>iness? 
Not  many  great  people  pass  through  that  country.  Their  inn  is  a  kind 
of  chop-house." 

Mr.  Madeleine  Kfill  held  hor  hand,  and  looked  at  her  with  anxiety. 
It  was  evident  that,  ho  had  cime  to  tell  her  things-before  wl»ii-h  his  mind 
now  hisitated.  The  pliysiei m  had  made  his  visit  and  retired.  Sister 
Simplicc  alone  remained  with  ihent. 

IJuf  in  the  midst  of  the  silence  Fantinc  cried  out: 

"  I  hear  her!     Oh,  darling!     I  hear  her!" 

Then;  was  a  cl.ild  playing  in 'the  court — the  child  of  the  portreps  or 
some  workwi^uian.  It  was  one  of  tho.se  chances  which  are  always  met 
with,  and  which  seem  to  make  part  of  the  my>ferious  reprcsentaiion  of 
tragic  events.  The  child,  whith  was  a  little  \:\r\,  was  running  up  and 
down  to  keep  herself  warm,  singing  and  laughing  in  a  loud  voice. 
Alas!  with  what  are  UQt  the  plays  of  children  mingled!  Fantiue  had 
heard  this  little  girl  hinging. 

"  Oh  !"  sai  J  fche,  "  it  is  my  Cosetto  !     T  know  her  voice  !" 

The  child  departed  as  she  had  come,  and  the  voice  died  awqy.     Fan- 


^  *  FANTINE.  195 

tine  listened  for  some  time.  A  sIkiHow  came  over  her  face,  and  Mr. 
Madrlu'ine  lieard  lier  \vlii«per,  ''  How  wicked  it  is  of  that  doctor  not  to 
let  me  soe  my  cliild  !     Tiiat  uian  has  a  bad  face  !" 

l>ut  yet  her  Iiipiiy  train  of  thought  returucd.  With  her  head  on  the 
pillow  she  continued  to  talk  to  hirself.  "  llow  hap[iy  wo  shall  bel 
AVe  will  have  a  little  garden  in  the  tirst  place;  Mr.  Ma<leleine  has  pro- 
mised it  to  me.  My  child  will  pl.iy  in  the  garden.  She  »mu<t  know 
her  Ktteip  now.  I  will  teach  Uer  to  spell  She  will  chase  the  butter- 
flics  in  the  grass,  and  I  will  witch-  her.  Then  there  will  be  her  first 
communion.     "Ah!  when  will  her  first  communion  be  !"' 

Slit^  began  to  count  on  her  fingers 

VOne,  two,  ♦hree,  four.  She  is  seven  yrar.s  old.  In  five  years.  She 
will  have  a  white  veil  and  open  worked  stocking.s,  and  will  l<>nk  like  a 
little  lady.  Oh,  my  good  si.ster,  you  do  not  know  how  foolis-h  I  am; 
here  I  am. thinking  of  my  child's  first  couiosunioa  !" 

And  she  began  to  laugh. 

lie  had  let  go  the  hand  of  Fantinc  lie  listened  to  the  word's  as  one 
listens  to  the  wind  that  bluws,  his  eves  on  the  ground,  and  his  mind 
plungid  into  untathomable  nfl(-c lions  Suddenly,  she  ceased  speaking, 
and  raised  her  head  mechanically.      Fantine  had  become  appalling. 

She  did  not  f;pcak  ;  she  did  not -breathe  ;  she  half  raised  hirsclf  in 
the  bed,  the  covering  fell  frou)  her  cmaeiiited  shoulders  :  her  counte- 
nance,  raJiant  a  moment  before,  became  livid,  and  her  eyes,  dilated  with 
terror,  seemed  to  fasten  on  something  before  her  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  • 

"Good  God  !"  fexclaimed  h*>.     "  What  is  the  matter.  Famine?" 

She  did  not  answer;  she  <lid  not  take  her  eyes  from  (he  olijjci  which 
she  .^eemed  to  see,  but  touched  his  arm  with  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  made  a  sign  to  him  to  look  behind  him. 

He  turned,  and  saw  Javert. 


III. 

JAVERT    SATISFIED. 

liet  us  see  what  had  happened. 

The. half  hour  after  midnight  was  striking  when  Mr.  Jl.idel  ine  left 
the  hall  of  the  Arras  Ass  zes.  He  had  returned  to  his  inn  just  in  time 
to  take  the  mail-coach,  in  whii^j   it  will  be  remembered   he  hi«d  secured 

his  seat.      A  little  before  six  in  the  morning  he  had  reached  M sur 

M ,  where  his  first  care  had  been  t<»  post  his  letter  to  Mr.  Laffitte, 

then  to  go  to  the  infirmary  and  visit  Fantine. 

Meanwhile  he  had  scarcely  left  the  hnll  of  the  Court  of  Agcizc!^  when 
the  prosecuting  attorney,  recovering  from  his  tiret  shock,  adiiies.-ed  the 

•court,  deploring  (he   insanity  of  the    Honorable    Mayor  of  .^I Hur 

M ,  declaring  tliat  his  convicti<ms  w<Te  in  no  wi-e  modi6ed   by  (his 

singular  incident,  which  would  be  explained  hereafter,  and  dems.nding 
the  conviction  of  this  (.'h mipmathieu,  wlvo  was  evidently  the  real  Jean 
Valjean.  The  persistence  of  the  pro^ecuting  aMorncy  was  vi-»ihly  in 
contradiction   to  the  seniioient  of'all — the  public,  the  court,  aud  the 


IOC  LES    MISERABLES.  . 

jury.  The  counsel  for  the  defence  had  little  difficulty  in  answering  this 
haranpuo,  and  csfablishin'r  that,  in  consequence  of  the  revelations  of 
Mr.  Madeleine — that  is,  of  the  real  Jean  Valjean — the  aspect  of  the 
case  was  changed,  entirely  changed,  from  top  to  bottom,  wnd  that  the 
jury  B.iw  had  before  them  an  innocent  man.  The  counsel  drew  from 
this  a  fvw  passionate  appeals,  untbrluuately  not  very  new,  in  regard  to 
judicial  eri^irs,  etc.,  etc  ;  the  judge,  in  his  eurmning  up,  si>led  with  the 
defence;  and  the  jury,  after  a  few  moments'  consultation,  acquitted 
ChMmpmathieu. 

]}ut  jet  rlie  prosecuting  attorney  must  have  a  Jean  Valjcan,  and  hav- 
ing lo>^t  ('hampmatliicu  he  took  Madeleine. 

Immediately  upon  the  discharge  of  Chjimpmathieu  the  prosecuting 
attorney  closeted  himself  with  the  judge.  The  subject  of  their  confer- 
ence was,  "Of  the  necessity  of  the  arrest  of  tUe  person  of  the  Mayor 

of  M sur  — '■ — '."     This  sentence,  in  which  there  is  a  great  deal  of 

of,  is  the  prosecuting  attorney's,  written  by  his  own  hand,  on  the  min- 
utes of  his  report  to  the  attorney-general. 

The  first  sensation  being  over,  the  judge  made  few  obji?ctions.  Jus- 
tice must  take  its  course.  Then,  to  confess  the  truth,  although  the 
judge  was  a  kind  man,  and  really  intelligent,  he  was  at  tlie  sanic  time  a 
strong,  almost  a  ze&lou«  royalist,  and  had  been  shocked  when  the  Mayor 

of  M sur  M ,  in  speaking  of  the  debarkation  at  Cannes,  s^id 

the  Emperor,  instead  of  Haonnpartc. 

The  order  of  arrest  was  therefore  granted.  The  prosecuting  attorney 
sent  it  to  M suf  M by  a  courier,  at  full  speed,  to  police  inspec- 
tor Javert. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Javert  had  returned  to  M sur  M , 

immediately  after  giving  his  testimony. 

Javert  was  just  ri^ing  when  the  courier  brought  him  the  warrant  and 
order  of  arrest. 

The  courier  l^imself  was  a  policeman,  and  an  intelligent  man  ;  who, 
in  three  words,  acquainted  Javcjrt  with  what  had  happened  at  Arras. 

Tile  order  of  arrest,  signed  by  the  prosecuting  attorney,  was  couched 
in  these  terms : 

*'  luspcetor  Javert  will  seize  the  body  of  Mr.  Madeleine,  Mayor  of 
M sur  M ,  who  has  this  day  been  identified  in  court  as  the  dis- 
charged convict  Jean  Valjean."  ■      , 

One  who  diil  not  know  Javert,  on  seeing  him  as  he  entered  the  hall 
of  the  infirmary,  could  have  divined  nothing  of  what  was  going  on,  and 
would  have  thought  his  manner  the  most  natural  imaginable.  He  was 
cool,  calm,  grave;  his  grey  hair  lay  perfectly  smooth  over  his  temples, 
and  he  had  jiscended  the  stairway  with  his  customary  deliberation.  But 
one  who  knew  him  thoroughly  and  examined  him  with  attention,  would 
have  shuddered.  The  buckle  of  his  leather  cravat,  instead  of  being  on 
the  back  of  his  neck,  was  under'his  left  ear.  This  denoted  an  unheard- 
of  agitation. 

Javert  was  a  complete  character,  without  a  wrinkle  in  his  duty  or  his 
uniform,  melhndieal  with  villains,  rigid  with  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  • 

For  him  to  misplace  the  buckle  of  his  cravat,  he  must  have  received 

one  of  thnse  shocks  whiih  may  well  bo  called  the  earihquakes  of  the  soul. 

lie  came  unostentatiously,  had  taken  a  corporal  and  four  soldiers  from 


FANTINE.  197 

a  station-house  near  by,  had  left  the  soldiers  in  the  court,  and  had  been 
shown  to  Fantine's  chamber  by  the  portress,  ^vithout  suspicion,  accus- 
tomed as  she  was  to  see  armed  men  asking  "for  the  Mayor. 

On  reaching  the  room  of  Fantine,  Javert  turned  the  key,  pushed 
open  the  door  with  the  gentleness  of  a  sick  nursB,"  or  a  police  spy,  and 
entered. 

Properly  speaking,  he  did  not  enter.  He  remained  standing  in  the 
half-opentd  door,  bis  hat  on  his  head,  and  Iiis  left  hand  in  his  overcoat, 
which  was  buttoned  to  the  chin.  .  In  the  bend  of  his  elbow  might  be 
seen  the  leaden*  head  of  his  enormous  cane,  which  disappeared  behind 
him. 

He  remained  thus  for  nearly  a  minute,  unperceived.  Suddenly,  Fan- 
tine  raised  her  eyes,  saw  him,  and  caused  Mr.  Madeleine  to  turn  round. 

At  the  moment  when  the  glance  of  Madeleine 'encountered  that  of 
Javert,  Javert,  without  stirring,  without  moving,  without  approaching, 
became  terrible.    -No  human  feeling  can  ever  be  so  appalling  as  joy. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  demon  who  had  again  found  his  victim. 

The  certainty  that  he  had  caught  Jean  Valjean  at  last,  brought  forth 
upon  his  countenance  all  that  was  in  his  soul.  The  disturbed  depths 
rose  to  the  surface.  The  humiliation  of  having  loSt  the  scent  for  a  lit- 
tle while,  of  having  been  mistaken  for  a  few  moments  concerning  Champ»- 
raathieu,  was.  lost  in  the  prid«  of  having  divined  so  well  at  first,  and 
having  so  long  retained  a  true  instinct.  The  sati.'^faction  of  Javert 
shone  forth  in  his  commanding  attitude.  The  deformity  of  triumph 
spread  over  his  narrow  forehead.  It  was  the  fullest  development  of 
horror  that  a  gratified  face  can  show. 

Javert  was  at  this  moment  in  heaven.  Without  clearly  defining  his 
own  feelings,  yet  notwithstanding  with  a  coiW^used  intuition  of  his  ne- 
cessity and  his  success,  he,  Javert,  personified  justice,  light  and  truth, 
in  their  celestial  function  as  destroyers  of  evil.  He  was  surrounded 
and  supported  by  infinite  depths  of  authority,  reason,  precedent,  legal 
conscience,  the  vengeance  of  the  law,  all  the  stars  in  the  firmament;  he 
prot-ected  order,  he  hurled  forth  the  thunder  of  the  law,  he  avenged 
society,  he  lent  aid  to  the  absolute;  he  stood  erect  in  a  halo  of  glory; 
there  was  in  his  victory  a  reminder  of  defiance  and  combat;  standing 
haughty,  resplendent,  he  displayed  in  full  glory  the  superhuman  bru- 
tality of  a  ferocious  archangel ;  the  fearful  shallow  of  the  deed  which 
he  was  accomplishing,  made  visible  in  his  clenched  fist,  the  uncertain 
flashes  of  the  social  sword  ;  happy  and  indignant,  he  had  set  his  heel  on 
crime,  vice,  rebellion,  perdition  and  iiell,  he  was  radiant,  exterminating, 
smiling;  there  was  an  incontestable  grandeur  in  this  monstrous  St. 
Michael. 

Javert,  though  hideous,  was  not  ignoble. 

Probity,  sincerity,  candor,  conviction,  the  idea  of  duty,  are  things 
which^  mistaken,  may  become  hideous,  but  which,  even  though  hideous, 
remain  great;  their  majesty,  peculiar  (o  the  human  conscience,  contin- 
ues in  all  their  horror;  they  are  virtues  with  a  singllj  vice — error.  The 
pitiless,  sincere  joy  of  a  fanatic  in  an  act  of  atrocity  preserves  an  inde- 
scribably mournful  radiance  which  inspires  us  with  veneration.  With- 
out suspecting  it,  Javert,.  in  his  fear-inspiring  happiness,  was  pitiable, 
like  every  ignorant  man  who  wins  a  triumpii.     Nothing  could  be  more 


1P8  LBS    MIsfiRABLBS. 

pain^il  and  terrible  tban  this  face,  which  revealed  what  wc  may  call  all 
the  evil  of  good. 


IV. 

ALXnORITY   RESUMES   ITS   SWAY. 

Fantine  had  not  seen  Javert  >ince  th--  day  the  Mayor  had  wrested  her 
from  i.iiu.  Her  hick  brain  atcou'ted  for  noibiii/i,  onlv  shf  wa»  t-ure 
that  ho  liad  eonie  for  her.  t^hi-  e.ouW  uut  <n<lure  this  hideous  face,  ebe 
felt  a.-  if  she  were  dying,  she  hid  her  face  with  both  hands,  and  bhritked 
in  ang'ii>li  : 

""Mr   iMadeleine,  save  me  !" 

Jeau   Valjtan,  we  shall  call   him  by  no  other  name  henceforth,  had 
risen.      He  t^aid  to  Fantine  in  lii.s  gentlest  and  cahnest  tone : 
•'  Be  cninpiLSid  ;  it  i.s  not  for  you  that  he  comes." 
He  then  luined  to  Javert. and  baid  : 

'♦1  know  what  you  want." 
•    Javert  answered: 
I  "  Hurr)  along." 

Th«;re  was  iu  the  manner  in  which  th^c  two  word-j  were  uttered,  an 
iDexpicsiibie  something  which   reminded  ynu  of  a  wild   b»ast   and  of  a 
madman      Javert  did  nut  say  "  Hurry  ahmg  !" -he  said  "  Ilurr'long  !" 
No  urthngraphy  can  expre.'-s  the  tone  in  which   this  was  pronounced  j  it, 
ceased  to  be  iiuman  s|)eech  ;   it  wiw  a  howl. 

He  did  not  go  through  the  usual  ceremony;  he  used  no  words;  he 
showed  no  warrant.  To  kim  Jean  Valjian  wasa  sort  of  mysierious  and 
intangible  antagonist,  a  shadowy  wrestler  with  whtmi  he  had  been  strug- 
gling t'lr  tive  years,  without  being  able  to  throw  jiiin.  This  arrest  wae 
not  a  beginning,  but  an  end.      He  only  said  :   "  Hurry  along !" 

While  spealying  thus,  he  did  not  stir  a  step,  but  cast  upon  Jean  Vul- 
jean  a  Iook  like  a  noose,  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to  draw  the 
wreichid  t'l  him  by  force. 

It  was  the  same  look  which  Fantine  had  felt  penetrate  to  the  very 
marrow  of  her  bones,  two  months  before. 

At  the  exclamaimn  of  Javert,  Fantine  had  opened  her  eyes  again. 
But  the- Mayor  was  there,  what  could  she  fear? 

Javert  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  chamber,  exclaiming: 

"Hey,  till  re;  are  you  coming  ?"• 

The  unhappy  woman  looktd  around  hor.  There  was  no  ore  hut  the 
nun  and  tlic  Ma)  or  To  whom  could  this  contemptuous  familiarity  be 
ad<licbsed  if     To  herself  ahme.      She  shuddered. 

Then  she  saw  a  mysterious  thing,  so  mysterious  that  its  like  bad  never 
appeared  to  her  in  the  darkest  delirium  of  fever. 

8he  saw  the  spy  Javert  seize  the  Mayor  by  the  collar;  she  saw  the 
Mayor  btw  I. is  hea^^.     The  world  seemed  vani.»hing  before  her  sight. 

Javert,  in  fact,  had  taken  Jean  Valjean  by  the  collar. 

*'Mr.  Mayor  !' cried  Fantine. 

Javert  buist  into  a  horrid  laugh,  displaying  all  his  teeth. 

••There  is  no  Mr.  Mayor  here  any  longer !"  eaid  be.    -^ 


PANTINK.  199 

Jean  Valjoan  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  the  hand  which  grasped  the 
collar  of  his  coat.     lie  said  : 

"Javcrt— " 

Javcrt  interrupted  liim  :   "Call  me  Mr.  Infipector !" 

"Sir,"  cnntinued  Jean  Valjean,  "I  would  like  to  speak  a  word  with 
you  in  private." 

"  Alou'l,  ppeak  aloud,"  said  Javcrt,  "  people  speak  aloud  to  me." 

Jean  Valjean  went  on,  lowerinf<  his  \»()ice. 

"  It  is  a  request  that  I  have  to  make  of  jou — " 

"I  fell  you  to  spe-.k  aloud." 

"But  this  should  not  be  heard  by  any  one  but  yourself." 

"  W^at  i.s  that  to  me?      1  will  not  ^i^ten." 

Jean  Valjean  turned  tojiini  and  siiid   rapidly  and  in  a  very  low  tnne^ 

"Give  mie  three  days  I  Three  days  to  go  for  the  child  of  thi.s  un- 
happy woman  !  I  will  pay  whatever  is  necessary.  You  shall  accom- 
pany me  if  you  like." 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?"  cried  Javert.  "Hey  !  I  did  not  think 
you  so  stupid  !  You  ask  for  three  days  to  get  away,  and  t>  II  me  that 
you  are  going  for  this  girl's  child  ^  Ila,  ha,  that's  good!  That  ia 
good !"  • 

Fantine  shivered. 

"  My  eWild  !"  she  exclaimed,  "going  for  my  child  !  Then  she  is  not 
here!  Sister,  tell  me,  where  ik  Cosette  ?  1  want  my  child!  Mr. 
Madeleine,  Mr   Mayor!" 

Javert  stamped  his  foot. 

"There  is  ihe  other 'now!  Hold  your  tongue,  hussy  I  Miserable 
country,  where  galley  slaves  are  magi^trates  and  women  of  the  town 
are  nursed  like  countesses!  Ila,  but  all  this  will  be  changed;  it  wag 
time!" 

He  gazed  steadily  at  Fantine.  and  added,  grasping  anew  the  cravat, 
shirt  and  coat  collar  of  Jean  Valjean  : 

"  I  tell  you  that  there  is  no  Mr.  Madeleine,  and  that  there  is  no  Mr. 
Mayor.  I'ljere  is  a  robber,  there  is  a  brigand,  there  is  a  convict  called 
Jean  V;iljean,  and  I  have  got  him  1     That  is  what  there  is  !" 

Famine  started  upriuht,  supporting  herself  by  her  rigid  arms  and 
hands;  she  looked  at  Jean  Valjean,  then  at  Javert,  and  then  at  the 
nun;  she  opened  her 'mouth  as  if  to  speak;  a  tattle  came  from  ber 
throat,  her  teeth  strUek  together,  she  stretched  out  her  arms  in  anguish, 
convulsively  opening  her  h.mds,  and  groping  about  her  like  one  who  is 
drowning;  then  s^'tik  suddenly  back  upon  the  pillow. 

Her  head  struck  the  head  of  the  bed  and  fell  forward  on  her  breast, 
the  mouth  gaping,  the  eyes  open  Jtod  glazed. 

She  Was  dead 

Jean  Valjean  put  his  hand  on  that  of  Javcrt  which  held  him,  and 
opened  it  as'he  would  have  opened   the  hand  of  a  child  ;  then  he  said  : 

"You  have  killed  this  woman  " 

"Have  done  with  thi- !"  cried  Javert,  furiou<>,  "I  am  not  here  tS 
listen  to  srrmons  ;  stop  all  that;  the  guard  is  below;  cotiie  right  aloag, 
or  the  handcuftsl" 

There  stoi«d  in  a  corner  of  the  room  an  old  iron  bedstead  id  »  dilapi- 
dated cooditioD,  which  the  sisters  used  a.x  a  camp  bed  whc-o  they  Watched. 


200  LE6    MISERABLES. 

Jean  Valjean  went  to  the  bed,  wrenched  out  "the  rickety  bead  bar,  a 
thing  easy  fur  muscles  like  his — in  the  twiuklinc:  of  an  eye,  and  with 
the  bar  in  his  clenched  fist,  looked  at  Javert.  Javcrt  recoiled  towards 
the  door. 

Jean  Valjean,  his  iron  bar  in  hand,  walked  slowly  towards  the  bed  of 
Fantine.  On  reaching  it,  he  turned  and  said  to  Javcrt  in  a  voice  that 
could  scarcely  be  heard  : 

"  I  advi.<e  you  not  to  disturb  me  now." 

Nothing  is  more  certain  thun  that  Javcrt  trembled. 

He  had  an  idea  of  calling  the  guard,  but  Jean  Va'jean  might  profit 
by  his  absence  to  escape.  He  remained,  therefore,  grasped  the  end 
of  his  cane,  and  leaned  aj^ainst  the  frame-work  of  the  door  without  tak- 
ing his  eyes  from  Jean  Valjean.  ,  • 

Jean  Valjean  rested  his  elbow  upon  the  post,  and  his  head  upon  his 
hand,  and  gazed  at  Fantine,  stretched  motionless  before  hibi.  He  re- 
mained, thus,  mute  and  absorbed,  evidently  lost  to  everything  of  this 
life.  His  countenance  and  attitude  bespoke  nothing  but  inexpressible 
pity. 

After  a  few  moments'  reverie,  he^bent  down  to  Fantine,  and  addressed 
her  in  a  whisper.' 

What  did  he  say  ?  Whjit  could  this  condemned  man  say  to  this  dead 
woman?  What  were  his  words?  They  were  heard  by  non(^on  earth. 
Did  the  dead  woman  hear  them  ?  There  are  touching  illusions  which 
perhaps  are  sublime  realities.  One  thing  is  beyond  doubt;  Sister  8im- 
plice,  the  only  witness  of  what  passed,  has  often  related  that,  at  the 
moiuent  when  Jean  Valjean  whispered  in  the  car  of  Fantine,  she  dis- 
tinctly saw  an  ineffable  smile  beam  on  those  pale  lips  and  iu  those  dim 
eyes,  full  of  the  wonder  of  the  tomb. 

Jean  Valjean  took  Fantine's  head  in  his  hands  and  arranged  it  on  the 
pillow,  as  a  mother  would  have  done  for.  her  child,  then  fastened  the 
string  of  her  night  dress,  and  replaced  her  hair  beneath  her  cap.  This 
done,  he  closed  her  eyes. 

The  face  of  Fantine,  at  thi.s  instant,  seemed  strangely  illumined. 

Death  is  the  entrance  into  the  great  light. 

Fantine's  hand  hung  over  the  side.of  the  bed.  Jean  Valjean  knelt 
before  this'hand,  raised  it  gently,  and  kissed  it. 

ffhen  he  rose,  and,  tuniiaij  to  Javert,  said : 

"  Now,  I  am  at  your  disposal." 


V.» 

^  A    FITTINQ   TOMR. 

Javert  put  Jean  Valjean  in  the  city  prison. 

The  arrest  of  Mr.  Madeleine  produced  a  sensation,  or  rather  an  ex- 
traordinary comniotion,  at  M sur  M .     We  are  sorry  not  to  be 

able  to  disguise  the  fact  that,  on  this  single  sentence,  he.  was  a  galley 
slave,  almost  everybody  abandoned  him.  In  less  than  two  hours,  all 
the  good  ho  had  done  was  forgotten,  and  he  was  "nothing  but  a  galley 
slave."     It  is  true  that  the  details  of  the  scene  at  Arras  were  not 


PAmiNE.  201 

yet  known;  All  day  long,  conversations  like  this  were  fceard  ia 
every  part  of  the  town  :  *'  Don't  you  know,  he  was  a  discharged  con- 
vict!" «'He!  Who?"  "The  mayor."  ''Bah!  Mr.  Madi;leine?" 
*•  Yes."  "  Indeed  I"  "  His  Tiarae  was  not  Madeleine ;  he  has  a  horrid 
name,  B<5jean,  Bojean,  Bonjean  !"  '*0h  !  bless  me  I"  "  He  has  been 
arrested."  "  Arrested  !"  "  In  prison,  in  the  city  prison,  to  await  his 
removal."  "  His  removal  !  where  will  he  be  taken  T'  "  To  the  Court 
of  Assizes  for  a  highway  robbery  that  he  once  committed."  *<  Well !  I 
always  did  suspect  him.  _  The  man  was  too^ood,  too  perfect,  too  sweet. 
He  refused  feej,  and  gave  sous  to  every  little  blackguard  he  met.  I 
always  thought  that  there  must  be  something  bad  at  the  bottom  of  all 
this." 

,    "  The  drawing-rooms,"  above  all,  were  entirely  of  this  opinion. 
In  this  manner  the  phantom  which  had  been  called  Mr.  Madeleine, 

was  dissipated  at  M sur  M .     Three  or  four  persons  alone  in 

the  whole  city  remained  faithful  to  his  memory.  The  old  portress  who 
had  been  his  servant  was  among  the  number. 

On  the  evening  of  this  same  day,  the  worthy  old  woman  was  sitting 
in  her  lodge,' still  quite  bewildered  and  sunk  in  sad  reflections.  The 
factory  had  been  closed  all  day,  the  carriage  doors  were  bolted,  the  street 
was  deserted.  There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  the  two  nuns,  Sister 
Pcrp6tue  and  Sister  Simplice,  who  were  watching  the  corpse  of  Fantine. 

Towards  the  time  when  Mr.  Madeleine  had  been  accustomed  to  return, 
the  honest  portress  rose  mechanically,  took  the  key  of  his  room  from  a 
drawer,  with  the  taper  stand  that  he  used  at  night  to  light  himself  up 
the  stairs,  then  hung  the  key  on  a  nail  from  which  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  taking  it',  and  placed  the  taper  stand  by  its  side,  as  if  she  were 
expecting  him.  She  then  seated  herself  again  in  her  chair,  and  resumed 
her  reflections.  The  poor  old  woman  had  done  all  this  without  being 
conscious  of  it. 

More  than  two  hours  had  elapsed  when  she  ^^arted  from  her  reverie 
and  exclaimed,  "Why,  bless  me!     I  have  hung  his  key  on  the  nail!" 

Just  then,  the  window  of  her  box  opened,  a  hand  passed  through  the 
opening,  took  the  key  and  stand,  and  lighted  the  taper  at  the  candle 
which  was  burning. 

The  portress  raised  her  eyes;  she  was  transGxed  with  astonishment j 
a  cry  rose  to  her  lips,  but  she  could  not  give  it  utterance. 

She  knew  the  hand,  the  arm,  the  coat-sleeve. 

It  was  Mr.  Madeleine.  * 

She  was  speechless  for  some  seconds;  thunderstruck,  as  she  said  her- 
self, afterwards,  in. giving  her  account  of  the  affair. 

**  My  God  !  Mr.  Mayor  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  though  you  were " 

She  stopped  ;  the  end  of  her  sentence  would  not  have  been  respectful 
to  the  beginning.     To  her,  Jean  Valjean  was  still  Mr.  Mayor. 

He  completed  the  thought. 

'•  In  prison,"  said  he.  "  I  was  there ;  I  broke  a  bar  from  a  window, 
let  myself  fall  from  the  top  of  a  roof,  and  here  I  am.  I  am  going  to 
my  room ;  go  for  Sister  Simplice.  She  ia  doubtless  beside  this  poor 
woman." 

The  old  servant  hastily  obeyed. 
14 


202  LES    MISERABLE6. 

He  g*re  her  no  caution,  very  sure  that  she  would  guard  him  bettor 
than  he  would  guard  himeelf. 

It  has  never  been  known  -how  he  had  succeeded  in  gaining  entrance 
into  the  court-}*ard  without  opening  th^  carriage  door.  He  had,  and 
alwajB  carried  about  him,  a  pass-key  which  opened  a  little  side  door,  but 
he  mufct  have  been  searched,  and  this  taken  from  him.  This  point  ia 
cot  yet  cleared  up. 

He  aeccndcd  the  staircase  which  led  to  his  room.  On  reaching  the 
top,  he  left  his  taper  stand  on  the  upper  stair,  opened  the  door  with 
little  noise,  felt  his  way  to  the  window  and  closed  the  shutter,  then  cair.e 
tack,  took  his  taper,  and  jrcnt  into  the  chamber. 

The  precaution  was  not  useless;  it  will  be  remembered  that  his  win- 
dow could  be  seen  from  the  street. 

He  cast  a  glance  about  him,  over  his  tabl'e,  his  chair,  his  bed,  which 
had  not  been  slept  in  for  three  days.  There  remained  no  trace  of  the 
disorder  of  the  niglit  before  the  last.  The  portress  had. "put  the  room 
to  rights."  Only,  she  had  picked  up  from  the  ashes,  and  laid  in  order 
on  the  table,  the  ends  of  the  loaded  club,  and  the  forty-sous  piece^  black- 
ened by  the  fire. 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote:  These  are  the  encfs  of  rny  londf.d 
club  and  the  forty-sous  jncce  stolen  frovi  Petit- Gervais,  of  lehirh  1  fpoke  , 
at  tJie  Crnirt  of  Assizes  ;  then  placed  the  two  bits  of  iron  and  the  piece 
of  silver  on  the  sheet  in  such  a  way  that  it  would  be  the  first  thing  per- 
ceived on  entering  the  room.  Ho  took  from  a  wardrobe  an  old  shirt ' 
which  he  tore  into  several  pieces  and  in  which  he  packed  the  two  s^ver 
candlesticks.  Tn  all  this  there  was  neitlicr  haste  nor  agitation.  And 
even  while  packing  the  Bishop's  candlesticks,  he  was  eating  a  piece  of 
black  bread.  It  was  probably  prison-bread,  which  he  had  brought  away 
in  escaping.  • 

This  has  been  established  by  crumbs  of  bread,  found  on  the  floor  of 
the  room,  when  the  cqjirt  afterwards  ordered  a  ■^■^Mr-^' 

Two  gentle  taps  were  heard  sH  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  he. 

Jt  was  Sister  Simplice. 

She  was  pale,  her  eyes  were  red,  and  the  candle  wiiiih  slie  held 
trembled  in  her  hand.  The  shocks  of  destiny  have  this  peculiarity  ; 
however  subdued  or  disciplined  our  feelings  may  be,  they  draw  out  the 
human  nature  from  the  depths  of  our  .-^nuls,  and  compel  us  to  exhibit  it 
toothers.  In  the  agitations  of  this  day  the  nun  had  again  become  a 
woman.     She  had  wept,  and  she  was  trembling. 

Jean  Valjean  had  written  a  few  lines  on  a  piece  of  paper,  which  he 
handed  to  the  nun,  saying,  "  Sister,  you  will  give  this  to  the  curate." 

The  paper  was  not  folded.     She  east  her  eyes  on  it. 

''  You  may  read  it,"  said  he. 

She  read:  "I  beg  the  Curate  to  take  charge  of  all  that  I  leave  here 
He  will  please  defray  therefrom  the  expenses  of  my  trial,  and  of  th? 
burial  of  the  woman  who  died  this  morning.  The  remainder  is  for  tb  > 
poor." 

.The  sister  attempted  to  speak,  but  could  scarcely  stammer  but  a  few 
iaarticUlate  sounds.     She  succeeded,  however,  in  saying: 


FANTINE.  ■    203 

<''  Does  not  the  M*ayor  wish  to  see  this  poor  unfortunate  again  for  the 
last  time  ?"•  *        • 

<'No,"  paid  he,  "lam  pursued*  I  should  only  be  arrested  in  her 
chanrber ;  it  would  disturb  her'." 

He  had  scarcely  fiaished  when  there  was  a  loud  noise  on  the  staircase. 
They  heard  a  tumult  of  steps  ascending,  and  the  old  portress  exclaiming 
in  her  loudest  and  most  piercing  tones : 

"  My  good  sir,  I  swear  to  you  iri  the  name  of.  God,  that  nobody  has 
come  in^here  the  whole  day,  and  the  whole  evening;  ^hat  I  have  not 
even  once  left  my  door." 

A  man  replied  :  "But  yet,  there  is  a'lightin  this  room." 

They  recognized  the  voice  of  Javcrt. 

The  chamber  was  so  arranged  that'  the  door  in  opening  covered  the 
corner  of  the  wall  to  the  right.  Jean  Valjean  blew  out  the  taper,  aud 
placed  himself  in  this  "corner. 

Si.ster  Simplice  fell  on  her  knees  near  the  table. 

Th^door  opened. 

Javert  entered.  • 

The  whispering  of  several  men,  and  the  protestations  of  the  portres.n 
were  heard  in  the  hall. 

The  nun  did  not  raii?e  her  eyes.     Shf  was  praying.  • 

The  candle  was  on  the  mantel,  and  gave'  but  a  dim  light. 

Javert  perceived  the  sister,  and  stopped  abashed. 

It  will  be  remembered  'that  the  very  foundation  of  Javert,  hi.<5  ele- 
vac'^t,  the  medium  in  which  he  breathed,  was  veneratio_p  for  all  autho- 
rity. He  was  perfectly  homogeneous,  and  admitted  of  no  objection  or 
abridgment.  To  him,  be  it  understood,  ecclesiastical  authority  was  the 
highest  of  all;  he  was  devout,  superficial  and  correct,  upon  this  point 
&.«  upon  all  others.  In  bis  eyes,  a  priest  was  a  spirit  who  was  never 
distakeu,  and  a  nun  was  a  being  who  never  sinned.  They  were  soul.s 
walled  in  from  this  world,  with  a  single  door  frhich  never  opened  but 
for  the  exit  of  truth. 

On  perceiving  the  sister,  his  first  impulse  was  to  retire. 

But  there  was  also  another  duty  which  held  him,  and  which  urged 
him  imperiously  in  the  opposite  direction.  His  second  impulse  was  to 
remain,  and  to  venture  at  least  one  question. 

This  was  the  Sister  Simplice,  who  had  never  lied  in  her  life.  Javert 
knew  this,  and  venerated  her  especially  on  account  of  it. 

"Sister,"  said  he,  "are  you  alone  in  this  room?" 

There  \yas  a  fearful  instant  during  which  the  poor  portress  felt  her 
Hmbe  faller  beneath  her.     The  sister  raised  her  eyes,  and  replied: 

"Yes." 

Then  continued  Javert— "  Excu.sc  me  if  I  persist,  it  is  my  duty — 
you  have  not  seen  this  evening  a  person,  a  man — he  has  escaped,  and 
we  are  in  search  of  him — Jean  Valjean — you  have  not  seen  him?" 

The  sister  answered — "  No." 

She  lied.  Two  lies  in  succession,  one  upon  another,  without  hesita- 
tion, quickly,  as  if  she  were  an  adopt  in  it. 

"Your  pardon  I"  said  Javejt,  and  he  withdrfw,  bowing  reverently. 

Oh,  holy  maiden !  for  many  years  thou  hast  been  no  more  in  thi? 


2C4  LSe    MISKRABLEfi. 

wor.vi,  iuj..  ua!:'.  joioed  tbc  eisterfl,  the  virgins,  anJ  tby  brethren,  the 
iJieels,  in  glory;  may  this  falaohood  be  rimeoibered  to  the* in  Paradise. 

"^'■^     .flirmaiioQ  of  the  pistcr  was  fo  Javert  aometbing  t^o  decif^ive  that, 
.  t  even  notice  the  singularity  of  this  taper,  just  blown  out,  and 
fcEJCK-iu;;  on  the  table. 

An  hour  afterwards,  a  man  was  walking  rapidly  in  the  darkness  be- 
neath the  trees  from  M sur  M ,  in  the  direction  of  Paris.     This 

man  was  Jean  Valjoan.  It  has  befeo  established,  by  the  testimony  of 
two  or  three  wagoners  who  met  him,  that  be  carried  a  bundle,  and  was 
dressed  in  a  blouse.  Where  did  he  get  this  blouse?  It  was  never 
known,  Neverthelcfis,  urJ  old  artisan  had  died  in  the  iafirroary  of  the 
factory  a  few  days  before,  leaving  nothing  but  his- blouse.  This  might 
Lave  been  the  one. 

A  lafct  word  in  regard  to  Fantine. 

We  have  all  one  mother-^the  earth.  JPantine  was  restored  to  this 
E  other. 

The  curate  thought  best,  and  did  well  perhaps,  to  reserve  out  o^  what 
Jean  Valjean  had  left,  the  larp^t  amount  possible  for  the  poor.  After 
all,  who  were  in  quedtion  ? — a  convict  and  a  woman  of  the  town.  This 
was  why  he  simpliGed  the  burial  .of  Fantine,  and  reduced  it  to  that  bare 
neceefiit^  called  the  Potter's  fieMI. 

And  fo  Fantine  was  buried  in  the  ccfmraon  grave  of  the  cemetery, 
which  is  for  everybody  and  for  all,  and  in  which  the  poor  are  lost. 
*IIappiIy,  God  know.s  where  to  find  the  soul.  Fantine  waa  laid  away  in 
the  durkness  with  bodies  which  had  no  name;  she  suffered  the  promis- 
cuity of  dust*.  She  was  thrown  ijjto  the  public  pit.  Her  tomb  Mfus  like 
\itr  hill. 


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